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COMPLETE  WORKS 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 

OF    NOTTINGHAM, 

LATE    OF    ST.    JOHN's    COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE. 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  LIFE. 


BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  LL.  D. 


No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  Statues  there  are  seen  to  weep, 
Affliction'a  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 

Btrow. 


FROM    THE    LAST    LONDON    EDITION, 


18  29. 


Lyman  Thurtton  8[  Co.  St$r$otyper9. 


lOAN  STACK 
GIFT 

Printed  by  J.  H.  A.  Frosl,  Boston 


PR  37  6  5" 


ACCOUNT  OP  THE  LIFE 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE 


It  fell  to  my  lot  to  publish,  with  the  assistance  of  my 
friend  Mr.  Cottle,  the  first  collected  edition  of  the  works 
of  Chatterton,  in  whose  history  I  felt  a  more  than  ordi- 
nary interest,  as  being-  a  native  of  the  same  city,  familiar 
from  my  childhood  with  those  great  objects  of  art  and 
nature  by  which  he  had  been  so  deeply  impressed,  and 
devoted  from  my  childhood  with  the  same  ardor  to  the 
8an\e  pursuits.  It  is  now  my  fortune  to  lay  before  the 
world  some  account  of  one  whose  early  death  is  not 
less  to  be  lamented  as  a  loss  to  English  literature,  and 
whose  virtues  were  as  admirable  as  his  genius.  In 
the  present  instance  there  is  nothing  to  be  recorded 
but  what  is  honorable  to  himself,  and  to  the  age  in 
which  he  lived ;  little  to  be  regretted,  but  that  one  so 
ripe  for  heaven  should  so  soon  have  been  removed  from 
the  world. 

Henry  Kirke  White,  the  second  son  of  John  and 
Mary  White,  was  born  in  Nottingham,  March  21st,  1785. 
His  father  is  a  butcher ;  his  mother,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Neville,  is  of  a  respectable  Staffordshire  family. 

From  the  years  of  three  till  five,  Henry  learned  to 
read  at  the  school  of  Mrs.  Garrington  ;  whose  name,  un- 
important as  it  may  appear,  is  mentioned,  because  she 
had   the  good  sense  to  perceive  his  extraordinary  ca- 


4  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

pacity,  and  spoke  of  what  it  promised  with  confidence. 
She  was  an  excellent  woman,  and  he  describes  her  with 
affection  in  his  poem  upon  Childhood.  At  a  very  early 
ag-e  his  love  of  reading  was  decidedly  manifested ;  it 
Avas  a  passion  to  which  everything  else  gave  way.  *  I 
could  fancy,'  said  his  eldest  sister,  '  I  see  him  in  his 
little  chair,  with  a  large  book  upon  his  knee,  and  my 
mother  calling,  "  Henry,  my  love,  come  to  dinner,"  which 
Avas  repeated  so  often  without  being  regarded,  that  she 
Avas  obliged  to  change  the  tone  of  her  voice  before  she 
could  rouse  him.'  When  he  was  about  seven,  he  would 
creep  unperceived  into  the  kitchen,  to  teach  the  servant 
to  read  and  Avrite  ;  and  he  continued  this  for  sometime 
before  it  was  discovered  that  he  had  been  thus  laudably 
employed.  He  wrote  a  tale  of  a  Swiss  emigrant,  which 
Avas  probably  his  first  composition,  and  gave  it  to  this 
servant,  being  ashamed  to  shoAv  it  to  his  mother.  The 
consciousness  of  genius  is  always  at  first  accompanied 
Avith  this  diffidence  ;  it  is  a  sacred  solitary  feeling.  No 
forward  child,  however  extraordinary  the  promise  of  his 
childhood,  ever  produced  anything  truly  great. 

Wiien  Henry  was  about  six,  he  was  placed  under  the 
Rev.  John  Blanchard,  who  kept,  at  that  time,  the  best 
school  in  Nottingham.  Here  he  learned  writing,  arith- 
metic, and  French.  When  he  was  about  eleven,  he 
one  day  Avrote  a  separate  theme  for  every  boy  in  his 
class,  which  consisted  of  about  twelve  or  fourteen. 
The  master  said  he  had  never  known  them  write  so 
well  upon  any  subject  before,  and  could  not  refrain  from 
expressing  his  astonishment  at  the  excellence  of  Henry's. 
It  Avas  considered  a  great  thing  for  him  to  be  at  so 
good  a  school,  yet  there  was  some  circumstances  which 
rendered  it  less  advantageous  to  him  than  it  might 
have  been.  Mrs.  White  had  not  yet  overcome  her  hus- 
band's intention  of  breeding  him  up  to  his  OAvn  business, 
and  by  an  arrangement  which  took  up  too  much  of  his 
time,  and  would  have  crushed  his  spirit,  if  that  '  mount- 
ing spirit '  could  have  been  crushed,  one  whole  day  in 
the  week,  and  his  leisure  hours  on  the  others,  were  em- 
ployed in  carrying  the  butcher's  basket.  Some  dif- 
ferences at  length  arose  between  his  father  and  Mr. 
Blanchard,  in  consequence  of  which  Henry  was  re- 
moved. 


HENRr    KIRKE    WHITE.  5 

One  of  the  ushers,  when  he  came  to  receive  the 
money  due  for  tuition,  took  the  opportunity  of  informing" 
Mrs.  White  what  an  incorrigible  son  she  had,  and  that 
it  was  impossible  to  make  the  lad  do  anything.  This 
information  made  his  friends  very  uneasy  ;  they  were 
dispirited  about  him  ;  and  had  they  relied  wholly  upon 
this  report,  the  stupidity  or  malice  of  this  man  would 
have  blasted  Henry's  progress  forever.  He  was,  how- 
ever, placed  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Shipley,  who  soon 
discovered  that  he  was  a  boy  of  quick  perception,  and 
very  admirable  talents  ;  and  came  with  joy,  like  a  good 
man,  to  relieve  the  anxiety  and  painful  suspicions  of  his 
family. 

While  his  school-masters  were  complaining  that  they 
could  make  nothing  of  him,  he  discovered  what  Nature 
had  made  him,  and  wrote  satires  upon  them.  These 
pieces  were  never  shown  to  any,  except  his  most  par- 
ticular friends,  who  say  that  they  were  pointed  and 
severe.  They  are  enumerated  in  the  table  of  contents 
to  one  of  his  manuscript  volumes,  under  the  title  of 
School-Lampoons  ;  but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  he  had 
cut  the  leaves  oat  and  destroyed  them. 

One  of  his  poems,  written  at  this  time,  and  under 
these  feelings,  is  preserved. 


ON  BEING  CONFINED  TO  SCHOOL 

ONE  PLEASANT  MORNING  IN  SPRING. 

Written  at  the  age  of  thirteen. 

The  morning  sun's  enchanting  rays 
Now  call  forth  every  songster  s  praise  ; 
Now  the  lark,  with  upward  flight, 
Gaily  ushers  in  the  light ; 
While  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree, 
The  birds  sing  songs  to  Liberty. 


But  for  me  no  songster  sings. 
For  me  no  joyous  lark  upsprings  ; 
For  I,  confined  in  gloomy  school, 
Must  own  the  pedant's  iron  rule, 
1* 


0  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

And,  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers, 
In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours  ; 
There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines, 
Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines. 
And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling, 
While  laughs  around  the  jocund  Spring. 

How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 
All  that  arithmeticians  know, 
Or  stiff  grammarians  quaintly  teach, 
Or  all  that  industry  can  reach, 
To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 
That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise  ; 
And  unconstrained  to  rove  along 
The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among  ; 
And  woo  the  Muse's  gentle  power. 
In  unfrequented  rural  bower  ! 
But,  ah  !  such  heaven-approaching  joys 
Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes  ; 
Still  will  they  cheat  in  vision  fine, 
Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen  ! 
Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove. 
To  some  secluded  bushy  grove  ; 
There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee, 
Hop  and  sing  at  liberty  ; 
And  till  death  should  stop  my  lays. 
Far  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 

About  this  time  his  mother  was  induced,  by  the  advice 
of  several  friends,  to  open  a  Ladies'  Boarding  and  Day 
School  in  Nottingham,  her  eldest  daughter  having  pre- 
viously been  a  teacher  in  one  for  some  time.  In  this 
she  succeeded  beyond  her  most  sanguine  expectations  ; 
and  Henry's  home  comforts  were  thus  materially  in- 
creased, though  it  was  still  out  of  the  power  of  his  fami- 
ly to  give  him  that  education,  and  direction  in  life, 
which  his  talents  deserved  and  required. 

It  was  now  determined  to  breed  him  up  to  the  hosiery 
trade,  the  staple  manufacture  of  his  native  place  ;  and  at 
the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed  in  a  stocking-loom. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


with  the  view,  at  some  future  period,  of  getting  a  situ- 
ation in  a  hosier's  warehouse.  During  the  time  that  he 
was  thus  employed,  he  might  be  said  to  be  truly  unhappy  ; 
he  went  to  his  work  with  evident  reluctance,  and  could 
not  refrain  from  sometimes  hinting  his  extreme  aversion 
to  it :  but  the  circumstances  of  his  family  obliged  them 
to  turn  a  deaf  ear.*  His  mother,  however,  secretly  felt 
that  he  was  worthy  of  better  things  :  to  her  he  spoke 
more  openly  :  he  could  not  bear,  he  said,  the  thought  of 
spending  seven  years  of  his  life  in  shining  and  folding 
up  stockings  :  he  wanted  something  to  occupy  his  hrain^  and 
he  should  be  wretched  if  he  continued  longer  at  this 
trade,  or  indeed  in  anything  except  one  of  the  learned 


*  His  temper  and  tone  of  mind  at  this  period,  when  he  was  in  his  fourteenth  vcar, 
are  displayed  in  this  extract  from  an  Address  to  Contemplation. 

Thee  do  I  own,  the  prompter  of  my  joys, 

The  soother  of  my  cares,  inspiring  peace  ; 

And  I  will  ne'er  forsake  thee. — Men  may  rave, 

And  blame  and  censure  me,  that  I  don't  tie 

My  ev'ry  thought  down  to  the  desk,  and  spend 

The  morning  of  my  life  in  adding  figures 

With  accurate  monotony  ;  that  so 

The  good  things  of  the  world  may  be  my  lot, 

And  I  might  taste  the  blessedness  of  wealth  : 

But,  oh  !  1  was  not  made  for  money-getting  , 

For  me  no  much-respected  plum  awaits, 

Nor  civic  honor,  envied — For  as  still 

I  tried  to  cast  with  school  dexterity 

The  interesting  sums,  my  vagrant' thoughts 

Would  quick  revert  to  many  a  woodland  haunt. 

Which  fond  remembrance  cherish'd,  and  the  pen 

Dropp'd  from  my  senseless  fingers  as  I  pictured. 

In  my  mind's  eye,  how  on  the  sliores  of  Trent 

I  erewhile  wander'd  with  my  early  friends 

In  social  intercourse.     And  then  I'd  think 

How  contrary  pursuits  had  throAvn  us  wide. 

One  from  the  other,  scatter'd  o'er  the  globe  , 

They  were  set  down  with  sober  steadiness, 

Each  to  his  occupation.     1  alone, 

A  wayward  youth,  misled  by  Fancy's  vagaries, 

Remain'd  unsettled,  insecure,  and  veering 

With  every  wind  to  ev'ry  point  o'  th'  compass. 

Yes,  in  the  counting-house  I  could  indulge 

In  fits  of  close  abstraction  ;  yea,  amid 

The  busy  bustling  crowds  could  meditate, 

And  send  my  thoughts  ten  thousand  leagues  away 


8  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

professions.  These  frequent  complaints,  after  a  year's 
application,  or  rather  misapplication,  (as  his  brother 
says,)  at  the  loom,  convinced  her  that  he  had  a  mind 
destined  for  nobler  pursuits.  To  one  so  situated,  and 
with  nothing"  but  his  own  talents  and  exertions  to 
depend  upon,  the  law  seemed  to  be  the  only  practica- 
ble line.  His  affectionate  and  excellent  mother  made 
every  possible  effort  to  effect  his  washes,  his  father 
being  very  averse  to  the  plan,  and  at  length,  after 
overcoming  a  variety  of  obstacles,  he  was  fixed  in  the 
office  of  Messrs.  Coldham  and  Enfield,  attorneys  and 
town-clerks  of  Nottingham.  As  no  premium  could  be 
given  with  him,  he  was  engaged  to  serve  two  years 
before  he  was  articled,  so  that  though  he  entered  this 
office  when  he  was  fifteen,  he  was  not  articled  till  the 
commencement  of  the  year  1802. 


Beyond  the  Atlantic,  resting  on  my  friend. 

Ay,  Contemplation,  even  in  earliest  youth 

I  woo'd  thy  heavenly  influence  !     I  would  walk 

A  weary  way  when  all  my  toils  were  done, 

To  lay  myself  at  night  in  some  lone  wood, 

And  hear'the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale. 

Oh,  those  were  times  of  happiness,  and  still 

To  memory  doubly  dear  ;  for  growing  years 

Had  not  then  taught  me  man  was  made  to  mourn ; 

And  a  short  hour  of  solitary  pleasure, 

Stolen  from  sleep,  was  ample  recompense 

For  all  the  hateful  bustles  of  the  day. 

My  opening  mind  was  ductile  then,  and  plastic, 

And  soon  the  marks  of  care  were  worn  away. 

While  I  was  swayed  by  every  novel  impulse, 

Yielding  to  all  the  fancies  of  the  hour. 

But  it  has  now  assumed  its  character  ; 

Mark'd  by  strong  lineaments,  its  haughty  tone, 

Like  the  firm  oak,  would  sooner  break  than  bend 

Yet  still,  oh,  Contemplation  !     I  do  love 

To  indulge  thy  solemn  musings  ;  still  the  same 

With  thee  alone  I  know  to  melt  and  weep. 

In  thee  alone  delighting.     Why  along 

The  dusky  tract  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 

When,  with  an  easy  competence  content, 

I  can  alone  be  happy  ;  where  with  thee 

I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  Nature, 

And  loose  the  wings  of  Fancy  ?— Thus  alone 

Can  I  partake  of  haj)})iness  on  earth  ; 

And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end, 

For  to  be  happy  he  must  needs  be  good. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  9 

On  his  thus  entering  the  law,  it  was  recommended 
to  him  by  his  employers,  that  he  should  endeavour  to 
obtain  some  knowledge  of  Latin.  He  had  now  only  the 
little  time  which  an  attorney's  office,  in  very  extensive 
practice,  afforded ;  but  great  things  may  be  done  in 
'  those  hours  of  leisure  which  even  the  busiest  may 
create,'*  and  to  his  ardent  mind  no  obstacles  were  too 
discouraging.  He  received  some  instruction  in  the  first 
rudiments  of  this  language,  from  a  person  who  then 
resided  at  Nottingham  under  a  feigned  name,  but  was 
soon  oblicred  to  leave  it,  to  elude  the  search  of  govern- 
ment, who  were  then  seeking  to  secure  him.  Henry 
discovered  him  to  be  Mr.  Cormick,  from  a  print  affixed 
to  a  continuation  of  Hume  and  Smollet,  and  published,, 
with  their  histories,  by  Cooke.  He  is,  I  believe,  the 
same  person  who  wrote  a  life  of  Burke.  If  he  received 
any  other  assistance,  it  was  very  triffing ;  yet,  in  the 
course  of  ten  months,  he  enabled  himself  to  read  Horace 
with  tolerable  facility,  and  had  made  some  progress  in 
Greek,  which  indeed  he  began  first.  He  used  to  exer- 
cise himself  in  declining  the  Greek  nouns  and  verbs  as 
he  was  going  to  and  from  the  office,  so  valuable  was 
time  become  to  him.  From  this  time  he  contracted  a 
habit  of  employing  his  mind  in  study  during  his  walks, 
which  he  continued  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

He  now  became  almost  estranged  from  his  family ; 
even  at  his  meals  he  would  be  reading,  and  his  eve- 
nings were  entirely  devoted  to  intellectual  improvement. 
He  had  a  little  room  given  him,  which  was  called  his 
study,  and  here  his  milk  supper  was  taken  up  to  him  ; 
for,  to  avoid  any  loss  of  time,  he  refused  to  sup  with 
his  family,  though  earnestly  entreated  so  to  do,  as  his 
mother  already  began  to  dread  the  effects  of  this  severe 
and  unremitting  application.  The  law  was  his  first 
pursuit,  to  which  his  papers  show  he  had  applied  him- 
self with  such  industry  as  to  make  it  wonderful  that  he 
could  have  found  time,  busied  as  his  days  were,  for  any- 
thing else.  Greek  and  Latin  were  the  next  objects  :  at 
the  same  time  he  made  himself  a  tolerable  Italian  scholar, 
and  acqu^'red  some  knowledge  both  of  the  Spanish  and 
Portuguese.     His  medical  friends  say  that  the  knowledge 

♦  Turner's  Preface  to  the  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons 


10  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

he  had  obtained  of  chymistry  was  very  respectable. 
Astronomy  and  electricity  were  among  his  studies : 
some  attention  he  paid  to  drawing,  in  which  it  is  prob- 
able he  would  have  excelled.  He  was  passionately 
fond  of  music,  and  could  play  very  pleasingly  by  ear  on 
the  piano-forte,  composing  the  bass  to  the  air  he  was 
playing ;  but  this  propensity  he  checked,  lest  it  might 
interfere  with  more  important  objects.  He  had  a  turn 
for  mechanics,  and  all  the  fittings  up  of  his  study  were 
the  work  of  his  own  hands. 

At  a  very  early  age,  indeed  soon  after  he  was  taken 
from  school,  Henry  was  ambitious  of  being  admitted  a 
member  of  a  Literary  Society  then  existing  in  Notting- 
ham, but  was  objected  to  on  account  of  his  youth:  after 
repeated  attempts,  and  repeated  failures,  he  succeeded 
in  his  wish,  through  the  exertions  of  some  of  his  friends, 
and  was  elected.  In  a  very  short  time,  to  the  great 
surprise  of  the  society,  he  proposed  to  give  them  a 
lecture,  and  they,  probably  from  curiosity,  acceded  to 
the  proposal.  The  next  evening  they  assembled  :  he 
lectured  upon  Genius,  and  spoke  extempore  for  above 
two  hours,  in  such  a  manner,  that  he  received  the  unani- 
mous thanks  of  the  society,  and  they  elected  this  young 
Roscius  of  oratory  their  Professor  of  Literature.  There 
are  certain  courts  at  Nottingham,  in  which  it  is  neces- 
sary for  an  attorney  to  plead  ;  and  he  wished  to  qualify 
himself  for  an  eloquent  speaker,  as  well  as  a  sound 
lawyer. 

With  the  profession  in  which  he  was  placed,  he  was 
well  pleased,  and  suffered  no  pursuit,  numerous  as  his 
pursuits  were,  to  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with 
its  duties.  Yet  he  soon  began  to  have  higher  aspirations, 
and  to  cast  a  wistful  eye  toward  the  universities,  with 
little  hope  of  ever  attaining  their  important  advantages, 
yet  probably  not  without  some  hope,  however  faint. 
There  was  at  this  time  a  magazine  in  publication,  called 
the  Monthly  Preceptor,  which  proposed  prize  themes 
for  boys  and  girls  to  write  upon  ;  and  which  was  en- 
couraged by  many  school-masters,  some  of  whom,  for 
their  own  credit,  and  that  of  the  important  institutions 
in  which  they  were  placed,  should  have  known  better 
than  to  encourage  it.  But  in  schools,  and  in  all  practi- 
cal systems  of  education,  emulation  is  made  the  main 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  11 

gpring*,  as  if  there  were  not  enough  of  the  leaven  of 
disquietude  in  our  natures,  without  inoculating  it  with 
this  dihitement — this  vaccine  virus  of  envy.  True  it  is 
that  we  need  encouragement  in  youth  ;  that  though  our 
vices  spring  up  and  thrive  in  shade  and  darkness,  hke 
poisonous  fungi,  our  better  powers  require  light  and  air  ; 
and  that  praise  is  the  sunshine,  without  which  genius 
will  wither,  fade,  and  die  ;  or  rather  in  search  of  which, 
like  a  plant  that  is  debarred  from  it,  v/ill  push  forth 
in  contortions  and  deformity.  But  such  pratices  as 
that  of  writing  for  public  prizes,  of  publicly  declaiming, 
and  of  enacting  plays  before  the  neighbouring  gentry, 
teach  boys  to  look  for  applause  instead  of  being  satisfied 
with  approbation,  and  foster  in  them  that  vanity  which 
needs  no  such  cherishing.  This  is  administering  stimu- 
lants to  the  heart,  instead  of  'feeding  it  with  food 
convenient  for  it ;'  and  the  effect  of  such  stimulants  is  to 
dwarf  the  human  mind,  as  lapdogs  are  said  to  be  stopped 
in  their  growth,  by  being  dosed  with  gin.  Thus  forced, 
it  becomes  like  the  sapling  which  shoots  up  when  it 
should  be  striking  its  roots  far  and  deep,  and  which 
therefore  never  attains  to  more  than  a  sapling's  size. 

To  Henry,  however,  the  opportunity  of  distinguishing 
liimself,  even  in  the  Juvenile  Library,  was  useful ;  if  he 
had  acted  with  a  man's  foresight,  he  could  not  have 
done  more  wisely  than  by  aiming  at  every  distinction 
within  his  little  sphere.  At  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  gained 
a  silver  medal  for  a  translation  from  Horace  ;  and  the 
following  year  a  pair  of  twelve  inch  globes,  for  an  im- 
aginary Tour  from  London  to  Edinburgh.- — He  deter- 
mined upon  trying  for  this  prize  one  evening  when  at 
tea  with  his  family,  and  at  supper  he  read  to  them  his 
performance,  to  which  seven  pages  were  granted  in  the 
magazine,  though  they  had  limited  the  allowance  of 
room  to  three.  Shortly  afterwards  he  won  several  books 
for  exercises  on  diflTerent  subjects.  Such  honors  were  of 
great  importance  to  him  ;  they  were  testimonies  of  his 
ability,  which  could  not  be  suspected  of  partiality,  and 
they  prepared  his  father  to  regard  with  less  reluctance 
that  change  in  his  views  and  wishes  which  afterwards 
took  place. 

He  now  became  a  correspondent  in  the  Monthly 
Mirror  :  a  magazine  which  first  set  the  example  of  typo- 


12  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

graphical  neatness  in  periodical  publications,  which 
has  given  the  world  a  good  series  of  portraits,  and 
which  deserves  praise  also  on  other  accounts,  having 
among  its  contributors,  some  persons  of  extensive  eru- 
dition, and  acknowledged  talents.  Magazines  are  of 
great  service  to  those  who  are  learning  to  write ;  they 
are  fishing  boats,  which  the  Bucaniers  of  Literature  do 
not  condescend  to  sink,  burn,  and  destroy  :  young  poets 
may  safely  try  their  strength  in  them ;  and  that  they 
should  try  their  strength  before  the  public,  without  dan- 
ger of  any  shame  from  failure,  is  highly  desirable. 
Henry's  rapid  improvement  was  now  as  remarkable  as 
his  unwearied  industry.  The  pieces  which  had  been 
rewarded  in  the  Juvenile  Preceptor,  might  have  been 
rivalled  by  many  boys  ;  but  what  he  produced  a  year 
afterwards,  few  men  could  equal.  Those  which  appear- 
ed in  the  Monthly  Mirror  attracted  some  notice,  and 
introduced  him  to  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Capel  LofTt, 
and  of  Mr.  Hill,  the  proprietor  of  the  work,  a  gentleman 
who  is  himself  a  lover  of  English  literature,  and  who 
has  probably  the  most  copious  collection  of  English 
poetry  in  existence.  Their  encouragement  induced 
him,  about  the  close  of  the  year  1802,  to  prepare  a 
little  volume  of  poems  for  the  press.  It  was  his  hope 
that  this  publication  might,  either  by  the  success  of  its 
sale,  or  the  notice  which  it  might  excite,  enable  him  to 
prosecute  his  studies  at  college,  and  fit  himself  for  the 
Church.  For  though  so  far  was  he  from  feeling  any 
dislike  to  his  own  profession,  that  he  was  even  attach- 
ed to  it,  and  had  indulged  a  hope  that  one  day  or  other 
he  should  make  his  way  to  the  Bar,  a  deafness  to  which 
he  had  always  been  subject,  and  which  appeared  to 
grow  progressively  worse,  threatened  to  preclude  all 
possibility  of  advancement ;  and  his  opinions,  which  had 
at  one  time  inclined  to  deism,  had  now  taken  a  strong 
devotional  bias. 

Henry  was  earnestly  advised  to  obtain,  if  possible, 
some  patroness  for  his  book,  whose  rank  in  life,  and  no- 
toriety in  the  literary  world,  might  afford  it  some  pro- 
tection. The  days  of  dedications  are  happily  well  nigh 
at  an  end ;  but  this  was  of  importance  to  him,  as  giving 
his  little  volume  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends 
and  townsmen.     The  countess   of  Derby  was  first  ap- 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  13 

plied  to,  and  the  manuscript  submitted  to  her  perusal. 
She  returned  it  with  a  refusal,  upon  the  ground  that  it 
was  an  invariable  rule  with  her  never  to  accept  a  com- 
pliment of  the  kind  ;  but  this  refusal  was  couched  in 
language  as  kind  as  it  was  complimentary,  and  he  felt 
more  pleasure  at  the  kindness  which  it  expressed,  than 
disappointment  at  the  failure  of  his  appUcation  :  a  21, 
note  was  enclosed  as  her  subscription  to  the  work.  The 
margravine  of  Anspeach  was  also  thought  of.  There  is 
among  his  papers  the  draught  of  a  letter  addressed  to 
her  upon  the  subject,  but  I  believe  it  was  never  sent. 
He  was  then  recommended  to  apply  to  the  dutchess  of 
Devonshire. — Poor  Henry  felt  a  fit  repugnance  at  court* 
ing  patronage  in  this  way,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  of  con- 
sequence in  his  little  world,  and  submitted  ;  and  the 
manuscript  was  left,  with  a  letter,  at  Devonshire  House, 
as  it  had  been  with  the  countess  of  Derby.  Some  time 
elapsed,  and  no  answer  arrived  from  her  Grace  ;  and  as 
she  was  knowm  to  be  pestered  with  such  applications, 
apprehensions  began  to  be  entertained  for  the  safety  of 
the  papers.  His  brother  Neville  (who  was  now  settled 
in  London)  called  several  times  ;  of  course  he  never  ob- 
tained an  interview  :  the  case  at  last  became  desperate, 
and  he  went  with  a  determination  not  to  quit  the  house 
till  he  had  obtained  them.  After  waiting  four  hours  in 
the  servants'  hall,  his  perseverance  conquered  their  idle 
insolence,  and  he  got  possession  of  the  manuscript.  And 
here  he,  as  well  as  his  brother,  sick  of  '  dancing  atten- 
dance '  upon  the  great,  would  have  relinquished  all 
thoughts  of  the  dedication  ;  but  they  were  urged  to 
make  one  more  trial  : — a  letter  to  her  Grace  was  pro- 
cured, with  which  Neville  obtained  audience,  wisely 
leaving  the  manuscript  at  home  ;  and  the  dutchess,  with 
her  usual  good  nature,  gave  permission  that  the  volume 
should  be  dedicated  to  her.  Accordingly  her  name  ap- 
peared in  the  title  page,  and  a  copy  was  transmitted  to 
her  in  due  form,  and  in  its  due  morocco  livery,  of  which 
no  notice  was  ever  taken.  Involved  as  she  was  in  an 
endless  round  of  miserable  follies,  it  is  probable  that  she 
never  opened  the  book  ;  otherwise,  her  heart  was  good 
enough  to  have  felt  a  pleasure  in  encouraging  the  author. 
Oh,  what  a  lesson  would  the  history  of  that  heart  hold 
out. 

2 


14  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

Henry  sent  his  little  volume  to  each  of  the  then  ex- 
isting Reviews,  and  accompanied  it  with  a  letter,  where- 
in he  stated  what  his  advantages  had  been,  and  what 
were  the  hopes  which  he  proposed  to  himself  from  the 
publication  :  requesting  from  them  that  indulgence  of 
which  his  productions  did  not  stand  in  need,  and  which 
it  might  have  been  thought,  under  such  circumstances, 
would  not  have  been  withheld  from  works  of  less  pro- 
mise. It  may  be  well  conceived  with  what  anxiety  he 
looked  for  their  opinions,  and  with  what  feelings  he  read 
the  following  article  in  the  Monthly  Review  for  Februa- 
ry, 1804. 

Monthly  Review,  February,  1804. 

'  The  circumstances  under  which  this  little  volume  is 
offered  to  the  public,  must,  in  some  measure,  disarm 
criticism.  We  have  been  informed,  that  Mr.  White  has 
scarcely  attained  his  eighteenth  year,  has  hitherto  ex- 
erted himself  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  the  dis- 
couragements of  penury  and  misfortune,  and  now  hopes, 
by  this  early  authorship,  to  obtain  some  assistance  in 
the  prosecution  of  his  studies  at  Cambridge.  He  ap- 
pears, indeed,  to  be  one  of  those  young  men  of  talents 
and  application  who  merit  encouragement :  and  it  would 
be  gratifying  to  us,  to  hear  that  this  publication  had  ob- 
tained for  him  a  respectable  patron,  for  we  fear  that  the 
mere  profit  arising  from  the  sale  cannot  be,  in  any  meas- 
ure, adequate  to  his  exigencies  as  a  student  to  the  uni- 
versity. A  subscription,  with  a  statement  of  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  author's  case,  might  have  been  calculated 
to  have  answered  his  purpose  ;  but,  as  a  book  which  is 
to  "  win  its  way"  on  the  sole  ground  of  its  own  merit, 
this  poem  cannot  be  contemplated  with  any  sanguine 
expectation.  The  author  is  very  anxious,  however, 
that  critics  should  find  in  it  something  to  commend,  and 
he  shall  not  be  disappointed  :  we  commend  his  exertions, 
and  his  laudable  endeavours  to  excel ;  but  we  cannot 
compliment  him  with  having  learned  the  difficult  art 
of  writing  good  poetry. 

'  Such  lines  as  these  will  sufficiently  prove  our  asser- 
tions : 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  15 

*'  Here  would  I  run  a  visionary  boy, 
When  the  hoarse  thunder  shook  the  vaulted  sky. 
And,  fancy  led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  in  the  eddying  storm." 

'  If  Mr.  White  should  be  instructed  by  Alma  Mater,  he 
will,  doubtless,  produce  better  sense,  and  better  rhymes.' 

I  know  not  who  was  the  writer  of  this  precious  arti- 
cle. It  is  certain  that  Henry  could  have  no  personal 
enemy.  His  volume  fell  into  the  hands  of  some  dull  man, 
who  took  it  up  in  an  hour  of  ill  humor,  turned  over  the 
leaves  to  look  for  faults,  and  finding  that  Boy  and  Sky 
were  not  orthodox  rhymes,  according  to  his  wise  creed 
of  criticism,  sat  down  to  blast  the  hopes  of  a  boy,  who 
had  confessed  to  him  all  his  hopes  and  all  his  difficulties, 
and  thrown  himself  upon  his  mercy.  With  such  a  let- 
ter before  him,  (by  mere  accident  I  saw  that  which  had 
been  sent  to  the  Critical  Review,)  even  though  the  po- 
ems had  been  bad,  a  good  man  would  not  have  said  so  ; 
he  would  have  avoided  censure,  if  he  had  found  it  im- 
possible to  bestow  praise.  But  that  the  reader  may 
perceive  the  wicked  injustice,  as  well  as  the  cruelty  of 
this  reviewal,  a  fcAv  specimens  of  the  volume,  thus  con- 
temptuously condemned  because  Boy  and  Sky  are  used 
as  rhymes  in  it,  shall  be  inserted  in  this  place. 

TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY.* 

1. 

Sweet  scented  flower  !  who  art  wont  to  bloom 

On  January's  front  severe. 

And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 
To  waft  thy  waste  perfume  ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow  ; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song  : 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long. 

The  melody  of  death. 

*The  Rosemary  buda  in  January.  It  is  the  flower  commonly  put  in  the  coffins 
•f  the  dead. 


16  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


Come,  funeral  flower  !  who  lov'st  to  d\vell 
With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb, 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
A  sweet  decaying  smell. 

Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 

Beneath  the  lowly  alder  tree, 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 

And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude. 

To  break  the  marble  solitude, 
So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 


And  hark  !  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies, 

Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees, 

And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze, 
Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower  !  that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine. 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead  ; 

My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot. 

Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 


TO  THE  MORNING. 

Written  during  illness 

Beams  of  the  day-break  faint  !  I  hail 
Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
Of  night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 

I  mark  your  traces  pale. 
Tired  with  the  taper's  sickly  light. 
And  with  the  wearying,  number'd  night, 
I  hail  the  streaks  of  morn  divine  : 
And  lo  !  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreaths 
That  round  my  rural  casement  twine  : 
The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes  ; 
It  fans  my  feverish  brow, — it  calms  the  mental  strife, 
And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambent  flame  of  life. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  17 

The  lark  has  her  gay  song  begun, 

She  leaves  her  grassy  nest, 
And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 

Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 
Now  let  me  leave  my  restless  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread  ; 

Now  through  the  custom'd  wood-walk  wend  ; 
By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way, 

Where  high  o'er  head  the  wild  briers  bend, 
Till  on  the  mountain's  summit  gray, 
I  sit  me  down  and  mark  the  glorious  dawn  of  day. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  the  soft  refreshing  gale 

It  breathes  into  my  breast ! 
My  sunk  eye  gleams  ;  my  cheek,  so  pale,      ,    ' 

Is  with  new  colors  dress'd. 

Blithe  Health  !  thou  soul  of  life  and  ease  ! 
Come  thou  too,  on  the  balmy  breeze, 

Invigorate  my  frame : 
ril  join  with  thee  the  buskin'd  chase, 
With  thee  the  distant  clime  will  trace, 

Beyond  those \jlouds  of  flame. 

Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 

In  all  the  varied  view  ! 
Before  me  all  is  burnish'd  gold, 

Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await. 
Far  to  the  west  they  hold  their  state, 

They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  Morn  ; 

Along  the  line  cerulean  sky, 

The  Heecy  clouds  successive  fly, 
While  bright  prismatic  beams  their  shadowy  folds  adorn. 

And  hark  !  the  Thatcher  has  begun 

His  whistle  on  the  eaves. 
And  oft  the  Hedger's  bill  is  heard 

Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  slow  team  creaks  upon  the  road, 

The  noisy  whip  resounds, 
The  driver's  voice,  his  carol  blithe, 


18  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  sithe, 
Mix  with  the  morning's  sounds. 

Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 

Beneath  these  clumps  of  trees, 
The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet. 

And  catch  the  healthy  breeze, 
Than  on  the  silken  couch  of  Sloth 

Luxurious  to  lie  ? 
Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 

An  interval  of  joy  ? 

To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 

The  morning's  pleasures  o'er. 
Fate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  close 

To  ope  on  him  no  more. 
Yet,  Morning  !  un repining  still 

He'll  greet  thy  beams  awhile  ; 
And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave 
Solemn  the  whisp'ring  willows  wave, 

Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile  ; 
And  the  pale  glow-worm's  pensive  light 
Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless  night. 

An  author  is  proof  against  reviewing,  when,  like  my- 
self, he  has  been  reviewed  above  seventy  times ;  but 
the  opinion  of  a  reviewer  upon  his  first  publication,  has 
more  effect,  both  upon  his  feelings  and  his  success,  than 
it  ought  to  have,  or  would  have,  if  the  mystery  of  the 
ungentle  craft  were  more  generally  understood.  Henry 
wrote  to  the  Editor,  to  complain  of  the  cruelty  with 
which  he  had  been  treated.  This  remonstrance  pro- 
duced the  following  answer  in  the  next  month. 

Monthly  Review,  March,  1804. 
ADDRESS    TO    CORRESPONDENTS. 

'  In  the  course  of  our  long  critical  labors,  we  have 
necessarily  been  forced  to  encounter  the  resentment, 
or  withstand  the  lamentalions  of  many  disappointed 
authors  ;  but  we  have  seldom,  if  ever,  been  more  affect- 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  19 

ed,  than  by  a  letter  from  Mr.  White,  of  Nottingham, 
complaining  of  the  tendency  of  our  strictures  on  his 
poem  of  Clifton  Grove,  in  our  last  number.  His  expos- 
tulation is  written  with  a  warmth  of  feeling  in  which 
we  truly  sympathize,  and  which  shall  readily  excuse, 
with  us,  some  expressions  of  irritation  :  but  Mr.  White 
must  receive  our  most  serious  declaration,  that  we  did 
"judge  of  the  book  by  the  book  itself;"  excepting  only, 
that,  from  his  former  letter,  we  were  desirous  of  miti- 
gating the  pain  of  that  decision  which  our  public  duty 
required  us  to  pronounce.  We  spoke  with  the  utmost 
sincerity  when  we  stated  our  wishes  for  patronage 
to  an  unfriended  man  of  talents,  for  talents  Mr.  White 
certainly  possesses,  and  we  repeat  those  wishes  with 
equal  cordiality.  Let  him  still  trust  that,  like  Gilford, 
(see  preface  to  his  translation  of  Juvenal,)  some  Mr. 
Cookesley  may  yet  appear  to  foster  a  capacity  which 
endeavours  to  escape  from  its  present  confined  sphere 
of  action  ;  and  let  the  opulent  inhabitants  of  Notting- 
ham reflect,  that  some  portion  of  that  wealth  which  they 
have  worthily  acquired  by  the  habits  of  industry,  will  be 
laudably  applied  in  assisting  the  efforts  of  the  mind.' 

Henry  was  not  aware  that  reviewers  are  infallible. 
His  letter  seems  to  have  been  answered  by  a  different 
writer  :  the  answer  has  none  of  the  common-place  and 
vulgar  insolence  of  the  criticism  ;  but  to  have  made  any 
concession,  would  have  been  admitting  that  a  review 
can  do  wrong,  and  thus  violating  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciple of  its  constitution. 

The  poems  which  had  been  thus  comdemned,  ap- 
peared to  me  to  discover  strong  marks  of  genius.  I 
had  shown  them  to  two  of  my  friends,  than  whom  no 
persons  living  better  understand  what  poetry  is,  nor 
have  given  better  proofs  of  it ;  and  their  opinion  coincid- 
ed with  my  own.  I  was  fully  convinced  of  the  injustice 
of  this  criticism,  and  having  accidentally  seen  the  letter 
which  he  had  written  to  the  reviewers,  understood  the 
whole  cruelty  of  their  injustice.  In  consequence  of 
this,  I  wrote  to  Henry  to  encourage  him  :  told  him,  that 
though  I  was  well  aware  how  imprudent  it  w  as  in  young 
poets  to  publish  their  productions,  his  circumstances 
seemed  to  render  that  expedient,  from  which  it  would 


20  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

Otherwise  be  right  to  dissuade  him  ;  advised  him  there- 
fore, if  he  had  no  better  prospects,  to  print  a  larger 
volume,  by  subscription,  and  offered  to  do  what  little  was 
in  my  power  to  serve  him  in  the  business.  To  this  he 
replied  in  the  following  letter. 

#  *  #  # 

'  I  dare  not  say  all  I  feel  respecting  your  opinion  of 
my  httle  volume.  The  extreme  acrimony  with  which 
the  Monthly  Review  ( of  all  others  the  most  important ) 
treated  me,  threw  me  into  a  state  of  stupefaction  :  I 
regarded  all  that  had  passed  as  a  dream,  and  thought 
I  had  been  deluding  myself  into  an  idea  of  possessing 
poetic  genius,  when  in  fact  I  had  only  the  longing  with- 
out the  afflatus.  I  mustered  resolution  enough,  however, 
to  write  spiritedly  to  them  :  their  answer,  in  the  ensu- 
ing number,  was  a  tacit  acknowledgement  that  they  had 
been  somewhat  too  unsparing  in  their  correction.  It 
was  a  poor  attempt  to  salve  over  a  wound  wantonly 
and  most  ungenerously  inflicted.  Still  I  was  damped, 
because  I  knew  the  work  was  very  respectable,  and 
therefore  could  not,  I  concluded,  give  a  criticism  grossly 
deficient  in  equity — the  more  especially,  as  I  knew  of  no 
sort  of  inducement  to  extraordinary  severity.  Your 
letter,  however,  has  revived  me,  and  I  do  again  venture 
to  hope  that  I  may  still  produce  something  which  will 
survive  me. 

'  With  regard  to  your  advice  and  offers  of  assistance, 
I  will  not  attempt,  because  I  am  unable  to  thank  you  for 
them.  To-morrow  morning  I  depart  for  Cambridge, 
and  I  have  considerable  hopes  that,  as  I  do  not  enter 
into  the  university  with  any  sinister  or  interested  views, 
but  sincerely  desire  to  perform  the  duties  of  an  affection- 
ate and  vigilant  pastor,  and  become  more  useful  to  man- 
kind, 1  therefore  have  hopes,  I  say,  that  I  shall  find 
means  of  support  in  the  University.  If  I  do  not,  I  shall 
certainly  act  in  pursuance  of  your  recommendations  ; 
and  shall,  without  hesitation,  avail  myself  of  your  oflTers 
of  service,  and  of  your  directions. 

'  In  a  short  time  this  will  be  determined  :  and  when  it 
is,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you  at  Keswick, 
to  make  you  acquainted  with  the  result. 

'  I   have   only   one   objection   to   publishing  by  sub- 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  21 

scription,  and  confess  it  has  weight  with  me.  It  is, 
that  in  this  step,  I  shall  seem  to  be  acting  upon  the 
advice  so  unfeelingly  and  contumeliously  given  by  the 
Monthly  Reviewers,  who  say  what  is  equal  to  this 
— that  had  I  gotten  a  subscription  for  my  poems  before 
their  merit  was  known,  I  might  have  succeeded ; 
provided,  it  seems,  I  had  made  a  particular  statement  of 
my  case ;  like  a  beggar,  who  stands  with  his  hat  in  one 
hand,  and  a  full  account  of  his  cruel  treatment  on  the 
coast  of  Barbary  in  the  other,  and  so  gives  you  his 
penny  sheet  for  your  sixpence,  by  way  of  half  purchase, 
half  charity. 

'  I  have  materials  for  another  volume,  but  they 
were  written  principally  while  Clifton  Grove  was  in 
press,  or  soon  after,  and  do  not  now  at  all  satisfy  me. 
Indeed,  of  late,  I  have  been  obliged  to  desist,  almost 
entirely,  from  converse  with  the  dames  of  Helicon. 
The  drudgery  of  an  attorney's  office,  and  the  necessity 
of  preparing  myself,  in  case  I  should  succee  d  in  getting 
to  college,  in  what  little  leisure  I  could  boast,  left  no 
room  for  the  flights  of  the  imagination.' 

In  another  letter  he  speaks  in  still  stronger  terms,  of 
what  he  had  suffered  from  the  unfeeling  and  iniquitous 
criticism. 

'  The  unfavorable  review  ( in  the  ^'  Monthly  "  )  of  my 
unhappy  work,  has  cut  deeper  than  you  could  have 
thought ;  not  in  a  literary  point  of  view,  but  as  it  affects 
my  respectability.  It  represents  me  actually  as  a 
beggar,  going  about  gathering  money  to  put  myself  at 
college,  when  my  book  is  worthless ;  and  this  with 
every  appearance  of  candor.  They  have  been  sadly 
misinformed  respecting  me  ;  this  review  goes  before  me 
wherever  I  turn  my  steps  ;  it  haunts  me  incessantly,  and 
I  am  persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Satan 
to  drive  me  to  distraction.     I  must  leave  Nottingham.' 

It  is  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  this  very  reviewal, 
which  was  designed  to  crush  the  hopes  of  Henry,  and 
suppress  his  straggling  genius,  has  been,  in  its  conse- 
quences, the  main  occasion  of  bringing  his  '  Remains  '  to 
light,  and  obtaining  for  him  that  fame  which  assuredly 


22  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

will  be  his  portion.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  indignation 
which  I  felt  at  perusing  a  criticism  at  once  so  cruel  and 
so  stupid,  the  little  intercourse  between  Henry  and  my- 
self would  not  have  taken  place  ;  his  papers  would  prob- 
ably have  remained  in  oblivion,  and  his  name  in  a  few 
years  have  been  forgotten. 

I  have  stated  that  his  opinions  were  at  one  time  inclin- 
ing towards  deism  :  it  need  not  be  said  on  what  slight 
grounds  the  opinions  of  a  youth  must  needs  be  founded : 
while  they  are  confined  to  matters  of  speculation,  they 
indicate,  whatever  their  eccentricities,  only  an  active 
mind  :  and  it  is  only  when  a  propensity  is  manifested  to 
such  principles  as  give  a  sanction  to  immorality,  that 
they  show  something  wrong  at  heart.  One  little  poem 
of  Henry's,  remains,  which  was  written  in  this  unsettled 
state  of  mind.  It  exhibits  much  of  his  character,  and  can 
excite  no  feelings  towards  him,  bat  such  as  are  favorable. 


MY  OWN  CHARACTER. 

Addressed  (during  illness)  to  a  Lady. 

^i.aR  Fanny,  I  mean,  now  Pm  laid  on  the  shelf, 
To  give  you  a  sketch — ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 
'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess. 
And  one  it  would  puzzle  a  painter  to  dress  ; 
But  however,  here  goes,  and  as  sure  as  a  gun, 
ril  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun  ;> 
For  I  know,  for  my  Fanny,  before  I  address  her, 
She  wont  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 
Come,  come,  'twill  not  do!  put  that  curling  brow  down 
You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  you,  learn  how  to  frown  : 
Well,  first  I  premise,  it's  my  honest  conviction, 
That  my  breast  is  a  chaos  of  all  contradiction  ; 
Religious — Deistic — now  loyal  and  warm  ; 
Then  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform  ; 
This  moment  a  fop,  that,  sententious  as  Titus  ; 
Democritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus  : 
Now  laughing  and  pleased,  like  a  child  with  a  rattle  ; 
Then  vex'd  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle  ; 
Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay, 
,To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WIIITfi.  23 

I'm  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child, 
But  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild : 
As  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute  ; 
Then  as  for  politeness — oh  !  dear — I'm  a  brute  ! 
I  show  no  respect  where  I  never  can  feel  it : 
And  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it ; 
And  so  in  the  suite,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
I've  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 

And  yet,  my  dear  Fanny,  there  are  who  can  feel 
That  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashion'd  like  steel. 
It  can  love  (can  it  not  ?) — it  can  hate,  I  am  sure, 
And  it's  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be  poor. 
For  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds  ; 
If  it  have  not  ripe  virtues,  I'm  sure  it's  the  seeds ; 
And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 

Well,  I've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloss  ; 

Then  as  to  my  virtues,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  ! 

I  think  I'm  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say, 

But  in  process  of  time  I  may  get  the  wrong  way. 

I'm  a  general  lover ^  if  that's  commendation. 

And  yet  can't  withstand  you  know  whose  fascination. 

But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices. 

In  fishing  for  virtues,  I'm  pulling  up  vices  ; 

So  as  for  the  good^  why,  if  I  possess  it, 

I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 

You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side, 
And  after  your  every  art  you  have  tried. 
Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  way. 
I  am  upright,  I  hope  ;  I  am  downright,  I'm  clear  ! 
And  I  think  my  worst  foe  must  allow  I'm  sincere  ; 
And  if  ever  sincerity  glow'd  in  my  breast, 
'Tis  now  when  I  swear *  * 

About  this  time,  Mr.  Pigott,  the  Curate  of  St.  Marys, 
Nottingham,  hearing  what  was  the  bent  of  his  religious 
opinions,  sent  him,  by  a  friend,  Scott's  Force  of  Truth, 
and  requested  him  to  peruse  it  attentively,  which  he 
promised  to  do.     Having  looked  at  the  book,  he  told  the 


24  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

person  who  brought  it  to  him,  that  he  could  soon  write 
an  answer  to  it ;  but  about  a  fortnight  afterwards,  when 
this  friend  inquired  how  far  he  had  proceeded  in  his  an- 
swer to  Mr.  Scott,  Henry's  reply  was  in  a  very  different 
tone  and  temper.  He  said,  that  to  answer  that  book 
was  out  of  his  power,  and  out  of  any  man's,  for  it  was 
founded  upon  eternal  truth  ;  that  it  had  convinced  him 
of  his  error ;  and  that  so  thoroughly  was  he  impressed 
with  a  sense  of  the  importance  of  his  Maker's  favor, 
that  he  would  willingly  give  up  all  acquisitions  of  know- 
ledge, and  all  hopes  of  fame,  and  live  in  a  wilderness, 
unknown,  till  death,  so  he  could  insure  an  inheritance 
in  heaven. 

A  new  pursuit  was  thus  opened  to  him,  and  he  en- 
gaged in  it  with  his  wonted  ardor.  '  It  was  a  constant 
feature  in  his  mind,'  says  Mr.  Pigott,  '  to  persevere  in 
the  pursuit  of  what  he  deemed  noble  and  important. 
Religion,  in  which  he  now  appeared  to  himself  not  yet 
to  have  taken  a  step,  engaged  all  his  anxiety,  as  of  all 
concerns  the  most  important.  He  could  not  rest  satis- 
fied till  he  had  formed  his  principles  upon  the  basis  of 
Christianity,  and  till  he  had  begun  in  earnest  to  think 
and  act  agreeably  to  its  pure  and  heavenly  precepts. 
His  mind  loved  to  make  distant  excursions  into  the  fu- 
ture and  remote  consequences  of  things.  He  no  longer 
limited  his  views  to  the  narrow  confines  of  earthly  exis- 
tence ;  he  was  not  happy  till  he  had  learned  to  rest  and 
expatiate  in  a  world  to  come.  What  he  said  to  me 
when  we  became  intimate  is  worthy  of  observation  : 
that,  he  said,  which  first  made  him  dissatisfied  with  the 
creed  he  had  adopted,  and  the  standard  of  practice 
which  he  had  set  up  for  himself,  was  the  purity  of  mind 
which  he  perceived  was  everywhere  inculcated  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  and  required  of  every  one  who  would 
become  a  successful  candidate  for  future  blessedness. 
He  had  supposed  that  morality  of  conduct  was  all  the 
purity  required  ;  but  when  he  observed  that  purity  of 
the  very  thoughts  and  intentions  of  the  soul  also  was  re- 
quisite, he  was  convinced  of  his  deficiencies,  and  could 
find  no  comfort  to  his  penitence,  but  in  the  atonement 
made  for  human  frailty  by  the  Redeemer  of  mankind ; 
and  no  strength  adequate  to  his  weakness,  and  sufficient 
for  resisting  evil,  but  the  aid  of  God's  Spirit,  promised 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  25 

to  those  who  seek  them  from  above  in  the  sincerity  of 
earnest  prayer.' 

From  the  moment  when  he  had  fully  contracted  these 
opinions,  he  was  resolved  upon  devoting  his  life  to  the 
promulgation  of  them  ;  and  therefore  to  leave  the  law, 
and,  if  possible,  to  place  himself  at  one  of  the  Universi- 
ties. Every  argument  was  used  by  liis  friends  to  dis- 
suade uim  from  his  purpose,  but  to  no  effect :  his  mind 
was  unalterably  fixed  ;  and  great  and  numerous  as  the 
obstacles  were,  he  was  determined  to  surmount  them 
all.  He  had  now  served  the  better  half  of  the  term  for 
which  he  was  articled  ;  his  entrance  and  continuance  in 
the  profession,  had  been  a  great  expense  to  his  family  ; 
and  to  give  up  this  lucrative  profession,  in  the  study  of 
which  he  had  advanced  so  far,  and  situated  as  hevwas, 
for  one  wherein  there  was  so  little  prospect  of  his  ob- 
taining even  a  decent  competency,  appeared  to  them 
the  height  of  folly  or  of  madness.  This  determination 
cost  his  poor  mother  many  tears  ;  but  determined  he 
was,  and  that  by  the  best  and  purest  motives.  Without 
ambition  he  could  not  have  existed,  but  his  ambition 
now  was  to  be  eminently  useful  in  the  ministry. 

It  was  Henry's  fortune,  through  his  short  life,  as  he 
was  worthy  of  the  kindest  treatment,  always  to  find  it. 
His  employers,  Mr.  Coldham  and  Mr.  Enfield,  listened 
with  a  friendly  ear  to  his  plans,  and  agreed  to  give  up 
the  remainder  of  his  time,  though  it  was  now  become 
very  valuable  to  them,  as  soon  as  they  should  think  his 
prospects  of  getting  through  the  University  were  such 
as  he  might  reasonably  trust  to  ;  but  till  then,  they  felt 
themselves  bound,  for  his  own  sake,  to  detain  him. 
Mr.  Pigott,  and  Mr.  Dashwood,  another  clergyman,  who 
at  that  time  resided  in  Nottingham,  exerted  themselves 
in  his  favor  :  he  had  a  friend  at  Queens  College,  Cam- 
bridge, who  mentioned  him  to  one  of  the  Fellows  of  St. 
Johns,  and  that  gentleman  on  the  representations  made 
to  him  of  Henry's  talents  and  piety,  spared  no  effort  to 
obtain  for  him  an  adequate  support. 

As  soon  as  these  hopes  were  laid  out  to  him,  his  em- 
ployers gave  him  a  month's  leave  of  absence,  for  the 
benefit  of  uninterrupted  study,  and  of  change  of  air, 
which  his  health  now  began  to  require.  Instead  of  go- 
ing to  the  sea  coast,  as  was  expected,  he  chose  for  his 
3 


36  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

retreat  the  village  of  Wilford,  which  is  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Trent,  and  at  the  foot  of  Clifton  Woods. 
These  woods  had  ever  been  his  favorite  place  of  resort, 
and  were  the  subject  of  the  longest  poem  in  his  little 
volume,  from  which,  indeed,  the  volume  was  named. 
He  delighted  to  point  out  to  his  more  intimate  friends 
the  scenery  of  this  poem  ;  the  islet  to  which  he  had  of- 
ten forded,  when  the  river  was  not  knee  deep  ;  and  the 
little  hut  wherein  he  had  sat  for  hours,  and  sometimes 
all  day  long,  reading  or  writing,  or  dreaming  with  his 
eyes  open.  He  had  sometimes  wandered  in  these  woods 
till  night  far  advanced,  and  used  to  speak  with  pleasure 
of  having  once  been  overtaken  there  by  a  thunder-storm 
at  midnight,  and  watching  the  lightning  over  the  river 
and  the  vale  towards  the  town. 

In  this  village  his  mother  procured  lodgings  for  him, 
and  his  place  of  retreat  was  kept  secret,  except  from  his 
nearest  friends.  Soon  after  the  expiration  of  the  month, 
intelligence  arrived  that  the  plans  which  had  been  form- 
ed in  his  behalf  had  entirely  failed.  He  went  immedi- 
ately to  his  mother  :  '  All  my  hopes,'  said  he,  '  of  getting 
to  the  University  are  now  blasted  ;  in  preparing  myself 
for  it,  I  have  lost  time  in  my  profession ;  I  have  much 
ground  to  get  up,  and  as  I  am  determined  not  to  be  a 
mediocre  attorney,  I  must  endeavour  to  recover  what  I 
have  lost.'  The  consequence  was,  that  he  applied  him- 
self more  severely  than  ever  to  his  studies.  He  now 
allowed  himself  no  time  for  relaxation,  little  for  his  meals, 
and  scarcely  any  for  sleep.  He  would  read  till  one,  two, 
or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  then  throw  himself  on 
the  bed,  and  rise  again  to  his  work  at  five,  at  the  call  of 
a  larum^  which  he  had  fixed  to  a  Dutch  clock  in  his 
chamber.  Many  nights  he  never  laid  down  at  all.  It 
was  in  vain  that  his  mother  used  every  possible  means 
to  dissuade  him  from  this  destructive  application.  In 
this  respect,  and  in  this  only  one,  was  Henry  undutiful, 
and  neither  commands,  nor  tears,  nor  entreaties,  could 
check  his  desperate  and  deadly  ardor.  At  one  time  she 
went  every  night  into  his  room,  to  put  out  his  candle  :  as 
soon  as  he  heard  her  coming  up  stairs,  he  used  to  hide 
it  in  a  cupboard,  throw  himself  into  bed,  and  affect  sleep, 
while  she  was  in  the  room  ;  then,  when  all  was  quiet, 
rise  again,  and  pursue  his  baneful  studies. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


27 


'The  night,'  says  Henry,  m  one  of  his  letters,  'has 
been  everything  to  me  ;  and  did  the  world  know  how  I 
have  been  indebted  to  the  hours  of  repose,  they  would 
not  wonder  that  night  images  are,  as  they  judge,  so 
ridiculously  predominant,  in  my  verses.'  During  some 
of  these  midnight  hours  he  indulged  himself  in  complain- 
ing, but  in  such  complaints  that  it  is  to  be  wished  more 
of  them  had  been  found  among  his  papers. 


ODE  TO  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

1. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come  ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad  ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise  ; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And  round  my  brow  resigned,  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine. 

2, 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  meditation,  in  her  cell. 
Hears  v/ith  faint  eye,  the  lingering  knell. 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead  ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear. 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all  was  not  laid  here. 

3. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come  ! 

Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurl'd, 
Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven. 
For  thou  severe  were  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world ; 
To  turn  my  eye     • 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 


^O  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

4. 

What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day  ! 
A  little  sun — a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discuss'd) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 

5. 

Oh,  what  is  Beauty's  power  r 

It  flourishes  and  dies  ; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break, 
To  tell  how  soft  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  IBeauty's  fall ; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  pall 

6. 

The  most  beloved  on  earth 
Not  long  survives  to-day  ; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet, 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  beloved  is  laid. 

7. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain. 

And  volatile,  and  fleet, 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  ? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill. 
When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing  heart 
be  still  ? 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  29 


Come,  Disappointment,  come  ! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me  ; 
Sad  Monitress  !  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say.  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  ! 

On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  probably  in 
the  freshness  of  his  disappointment. 

I  DREAM  no  more — the  vision  flies  away, 

And  Disappointment     *     *     *     * 

There  fell  my  hopes— I  lost  my  all  in  this, 

My  cherish'd  all  of  visionary  bliss. 

Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  below  ; 

Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  wo. 

Plunge  me  in  glooms    *     #     *     * 

His  health  soon  sunk  under  these  habits  ;  he  became 
pale  and  thin,  and  at  length  had  a  sharp  fit  of  sickness. 
On  his  recovery  he  wrote  the  following  hues  in  the 
church-yard  of  his  favorite  village. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  WILFORD  CHURCH-YARD, 

On  recovery  from  sickness. 

Here  would  I  wish  to  sleep. — This  is  the  spot 
Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in  ; 
Tired  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world, 
Beneath  this  yew  I  would  be  sepulchred. 
It  is  a  lovely  spot !  the  sultry  sun. 
From  his  meridian  height,  endeavours  vainly 
To  pierce  the  shadowy  foliage,  while  the  zephyr 
Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  ripphng  Trent, 
And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.     'Tis  a  nook 
Most  pleasant.     Such  a  one  perchance,  did  Gray 
Frequent,  as  with  the  vagrant  muse  he  wanton'd. 
3* 


30  HENRY    KIRKE    V.'HITE. 

Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate, 

For  I  am  wearied  witli  my  summer's  walk ; 

And  here  I  may  repose  in  silent  ease  ; 

And  thus,  perchance,  when  life's  sad  journey's  o'er, 

My  harass'd  soul,  in  this  same  spot,  may  find 

The  haven  of  its  rest — beneath  this  sod 

Perchance  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  death. 

I  would  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  dov/n 

With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earthworm 

Of  its  predestined  dues  ;  no,  I  would  lie 

Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass-o'ergrown, 

Swathed  down  with  osiers,  just  as  sleep  the  cottiers. 

Yet  may  not  undistinguished  be  my  grave  ; 

But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soul 

Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 

The  good  man's  benison — no  more  I  ask. 

And  oh  !  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 

From  where,  with  cherubim,  inspired  they  sit, 

Upon  this  little  dim-discover'd  spot. 

The  earth,)  then  will  I  cast  a  glance  below, 

On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shall  embalm  ; 

And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  bless  the  wanderer. 

Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine 

In  this  low-thoughted  world  of  darkling  wo. 

But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 

Yet  'twas  a  silly  thought,  as  if  the  body, 
Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery, 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze  ! 
Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom. 
And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 
His  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 
A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 
Endear'd  to  it  by  time.     And  who  would  lay 
His  body  in  the  city  burial-place. 
To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  Sexton, 
And  yield  its  narrow  house  another  tenant, 
Ere  the  moist  iiesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust, 
Ere  the  tenaciou>^  hair  had  left  the  scalp, 
Exposed  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness  ? 
No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground ; 


HENRY    KIRKH    WHITE.  31 

There  are  the  dead  respected.     The  poor  hind, 

Unlettered  as  he  is,  would  scorn  to  invade 

The  silent  resting-place  of  death.     I've  seen 

The  laborer,  returning  from  his  toil. 

Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round,   ^ 

And  slowly  spell  the  rudely  sculptured  rhymes, 

And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  moralize. 

I've  mark'd  with  what  a  silent  awe  he'd  spoken, 

With  head  uncover'd,  his  respectful  manner, 

And  all  the  honors  which  he  paid  the  grave. 

And  thought  on  cities,  where  even  cemeteries, 

Bestrew'd  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality. 

Are  not  protected  from  the  drunken  insolence 

Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wanton  havoc. 

Grant  Heaven,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close ! 

Yet,  if  this  be  denied,  where'er  my  bones 

May  lie — or  in  the  city's  crowded  bounds,  • 

Or  scatter'd  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters, 

Or  left  a  prey  on  some  deserted  shore 

To  the  rapacious  cormorant, — yet  still, 

(For  why  should  sober  reason  cast  away 

A  thought  which  soothes  the  soul  ?) — yet  still  my  spirit 

Shall  wing  its  way  to  these  my  native  regions, 

And  hover  o'er  this  spot.     Oh,  then  I'll  think 

Of  times  when  I  was  seated  'neath  this  yew 

In  solemn  rumination  ;  and  will  smile 

With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  long'd  release. 

His  friends  are  of  opinion  that  he  never  thoroughly 
recovered  from  the  shock  which  his  constitution  had 
sustained.  Many  of  his  poems  indicate  that  he  thought 
himself  in  danger  of  consumption  ;  he  was  not  aware 
that  he  was  generating  or  fostering  in  himself  another 
disease,  little  less  dreadful,  and  which  threatens  intel- 
lect as  well  as  life.  At  this  time  youth  was  in  his  favor, 
and  his  hopes,  which  were  now  again  renewed,  produc- 
ed perhaps  a  better  effect  than  medicine.  Mr.  Dash- 
wood  obtained  for  him  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Simeon, 
of  Kings  College,  and  with  this  he  was  induced  to  go 
to  Cambridge.  Mr.  Simeon,  from  the  recommendation 
which  he  received,  and  from  the  conversation  he  had 
with  him,  promised  to  procure  for  him  a  Sizership  at  St. 
Johns,  and,  with  the  additional  aid  of  a  friend  to  supply 


32  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

him  with  301.  annually.  His  brother  Neville  promised 
twenty  ;  and  his  mother,  it  was  hoped,  would  be  able  to 
allow  fifteen  or  twenty  more.  With  this,  it  was  thought, 
he  could  go  through  college.  If  this  prospect  had  not 
been  opened  to  him,  he  would  probably  have  turned  his 
thoughts  towards  the  orthodox  dissenters. 

On  his  return  to  Nottingham,  the  Rev. Robinson, 

of  Leicester,  and  some  other  friends  advised  him  to  ap- 
ply to  the  Elland  Society  for  assistance,  conceiving  it 
would  be  less  oppressive  to  his  feelings  to  be  dependant 
on  a  Society  instituted  for  the  express  purpose  of  train- 
ing up  such  young  men  as  himself  (that  is,  such  in  cir- 
cumstances and  opinions)  for  the  ministry,  than  on  the 
bounty  of  an  individual.     In  consequence  of  this  advice, 
he  went  to  Elland  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Society,  a 
stranger  there,  and  without  one  friend  among  the  mem- 
bers.    He  was  examined,  for  several  hours,  by  about 
five-and-twenty  clergymen,  as  to  his  religious  views  and 
sentiments,  his  theological  knowledge,  and  his  classical 
attainments.     In  the  course  of  the  inquiry,  it  appeared 
that  he  had  published  a  volume  of  poems  :  their  ques- 
tions now  began  to  be  unpleasantly  inquisitive  concern- 
ing the  nature  of  these  poems,  and  he  was  assailed  by 
queries  from  all  quarters.     It  was  well  for  Henry  that 
they  did  not  think  of  referring  to  the  Monthly  Review 
for  authority.     My  letter  to  him  happened  to  be  in  his 
pocket ;  he  luckily  recollected  this,  and  produced  it  as  a 
testimony  in  his  favor.     They  did  me  the  honor  to  say 
that  it  was  quite  sufficient,  and  pursued  this  part  of  the 
inquiry  no  further.     Before  he  left  Elland,  he  was  given 
to  understand,  that  they  were  well   satisfied   with  his 
theological  knowledge  ;  that  they  thought  his  classical 
proficiency  prodigious  for  his  age,   and  that  they  had 
placed  him  on  their  books.     He  returned  little  pleased 
with  his  journey.     His  friends  had  been  mistaken  ;  the 
bounty  of  an  individual  calls  forth  a  sense  of  kindness, 
as  well  as  of  dependance  :  that  of  a  Society  has  the  vir- 
tue of  charity  perhaps,  but  it  wants  the  grace.     He  now 
wrote  to  Mr.   Simeon,  stating  what  he  had  done,  and 
that  the  beneficence  of  his  unknown  friends  was  no  long- 
er necessary  :  but  that  gentleman  obliged  him  to  decline 
the  assistance  of  the   Society,  which  he  very  willingly 
did. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  33 

This  being  finally  arranged,  he  quitted  his  employers 
in  October,  1804.  How  much  he  had  conducted  himself 
to  their  satisfaction,  will  appear  by  this  testimony  of 
Mr.  Enfield,  to  his  diligence  and  uniform  vrorth.  '  I  have 
great  pleasure,'  says  this  gentleman.^  '  in  paying  the  tri- 
bute to  his  memory,  of  expressing  the  knowledge  which 
was  afforded  me  during  the  period  of  his  connexion  with 
Mr.  Coldham  and  myself,  of  his  diligent  application,  his 
ardor  for  study,  and  his  virtuous  and  amiable  disposition. 
He  very  soon  discovered  an  unusual  aptness  in  compre- 
hending the  routine  of  business,  and  great  ability  and 
rapidity  in  the  execution  of  everything  which  was  in- 
trusted to  him.  His  diligence  and  punctual  attention 
were  unremitted,  and  his  services  became  extremely 
valuable  a  considerable  time  before  he  left  us.  He  seem- 
ed to  me  to  have  no  relish  for  the  ordinary  pleasures  and 
dissipations  of  young  men  ;  his  mind  was  perpetually 
employed,  either  in  the  business  of  his  profession,  or  in 
private  study.  With  his  fondness  for  literature,  we  were 
well  acquainted,  but  had  no  reason  to  offer  any  check  to 
it,  for  he  never  permitted  the  indulgence  of  his  literary 
pursuits  to  interfere  with  the  engagements  of  business. 
The  difficulty  of  hearing,  under  which  he  labored,  was 
distressing  to  him  in  the  practice  of  his  profession,  and 
was,  I  think,  an  inducement,  in  co-operation  with  his 
other  inclinations,  for  his  resolving  to  relinquish  the  law. 
I  can,  with  truth,  assert,  that  his  determination  was 
matter  of  serious  regret  to  my  partner  and  myself.' 

Mr.  Simeon  had  advised  him  to  degrade  for  a  year,  and 
place  himself,   during  that  time,  under  some  scholar. 

He  went  accopdingly  to  the  Rev. Grainger,  of 

Winteringham,  in  Lincolnshire,  and  there,  notwithstand- 
hig  all  the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  pursuing  the  same 
unrelenting  course  of  study,  a  second  illness  was  the 
consequence.  When  he  was  recovering,  he  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  relax,  to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to  drink 
wine  ;  these  latter  remedies  he  could  not  long  afford, 
and  he  would  not  allow  himself  time  for  relaxation  when 
he  did  not  feel  its  immediate  necessity.  He  frequently, 
at  this  time,  studied  fourteen  hours  a  day  :  the  progress 
which  he  made  in  twelve  months  was  indeed  astonish- 
hig  :  when  he  went  to  Cambridge,  he  was  immediately 
as  much  distinguished  for  his  classical  knowledge  as  his 


34  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

genius  :  but  the  seeds  of  death  were  in  him,  and  the 
place  to  which  he  had  so  long"  looked  on  with  hope, 
served  unhappily  as  a  hothouse  to  ripen  them.^ 

During  his  first  term,  one  of  the  University  Scholar- 
ships became  vacant,  and  Henry,  young  as  he  was  in 
college,  and  almost  self-taught,  was  advised,  by  those 
who  were  best  able  to  estimate  his  chance  of  success,  to 
offer  himself  as  a  competitor  for  it.  He  passed  the  whole 
term  in  preparing  him.self  for  this,  reading  for  college 
subjects  in  bed,  in  his  walks,  or,  as  h'e  says,  where,  when, 
and  how  he  could,  never  having  a  moment  to  spare,  and 
often  going  to  his  tutor  without  having  read  at  all.  His 
strength  sunk  under  this,  and  though  he  had  declared 
himself  a  candidate,  he  was  compelled  to  decline  ;  but 
this  was  not  the  only  misfortune.  The  general  college 
examination  came  on  ;  he  was  utterly  unprepared  to 
meet  it,  and  believed  that  a  failure  here  v/ould  have 
ruined  his  prospects  forever.  He  had  only  about  a  fort- 
night to  read  what  other  men  had  been  the  whole  term 
reading.  Once  more  he  exerted  himself  beyond  what 
his  shattered  health  could  bear  ;  the  disorder  return- 
ed, and  he  went  to  his  tutor,  Mr.  Catton,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  and  told  him  that  he  could  not  go  into  the 
hall  to  be  examined.  Mr.  Catton,  however,  thought 
his  success  here  of  so  much  importance,  that  he  ex- 
horted him,  with  all  possible  earnestness,  to  hold  out 
the  six  days  of  the  examination.  Strong  medicines  were 
given  him  to  enable  him  to  support  it,  and  he  was  pro- 
nounced the  first  man  of  his  year.  But  life  was  the 
price  which  he  was  to  pay  for  such  honors  as  these,  and 
Henry  is  not  the  first  young  man  to  whom  such  honors 
have  proved  fatal.  He  said  to  his  most  intimate  friend, 
almost  the  last  time  he  saw  him,  that  were  he  to  paint 
a  picture  of  Fame,  crowning  a  distinguished  under-gradu- 


*  During  his  residence  in  my  family,  says  Mr.  Grainger,  his  conduct  was  highly 
becoming,  and  suitable  to  a  christian  profession.  He  was  mild  and  inoffensive, 
modest,  unassuming,  and  affectionate.  He  attended,  with  great  cheerfulness,  a 
Sunday  School  whicli  I  was  endeavouring  to  establish  in  the  village,  and  was  at 
considerable  pains  in  the  instn'ction  of  the  children  ;  and  I  have  repeatedly  observ- 
ed, that  he  was  most  pleased  and  most  edified,  with  such  of  my  sermons  and  ad- 
di-esses  to  my  people  as  were  most  close,  plain,  and  familiar.  \Mien  we  parted,  we 
parted  with  mutual  regret ;  aaid  by  us  his  name  will  long  be  remembered  with  affec- 
tion and  delight. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  35 

ate,  after  the  senate-house  examination,  he  would  rep- 
resent her  as  concealing  a  Death's  head  under  a  mask 
of  beauty. 

When  this  was  over  he  went  to  London.  London 
was  a  new  scene  of  excitement,  and  what  his  mind  re- 
quired was  tranquillity  and  rest.  Before  he  left  college, 
he  had  become  anxious  concerning  his  expenses,  fearing 
that  they  exceeded  his  means.  Mr.  Catton  perceived 
this,  and  twice  called  him  to  his  rooms,  to  assure  him 
of  every  necessary  support,  and  every  encouragement, 
and  to  give  him  every  hope.  This  kindness  relieved 
his  spirits  of  a  heavy  weight,  and  on  his  return  he  re- 
laxed a  little  from  his  studies,  but  it  was  only  a  little. 
I  found  among  his  papers  the  day  thus  planned  out : — 
'  Rise  at  half  past  five.  Devotions  and  walk  till  seven. 
Chapel  and  breakfast  till  eight.  Study  and  lectures  till 
one.  Four  and  a  half  clear  reading.  Walk,  &c.  and 
dinner,  and  Woolaston,  and  chapel  to  six.  Six  to  nine, 
reading — three  hours.  Nine  to  ten,  devotions.  Bed  at 
ten.' 

Among  his  latest  writings  are  these  resolutions  : — 

'  I  will  never  be  in  bed  after  six. 

I  will  not  drink  tea  out  above  once  a  week,  excepting 
on  Sundays,  unless  there  appear  some  good  reason 
for  so  doing. 

I  will  never  pass  a  day  without  reading  some  portion  of 
the  Scriptures. 

I  will  labor  diligently  in  my  mathematical  studies,  be- 
cause I  half  suspect  myself  of  a  dislike  to  them. 

I  will  walk  two  hours  a  day,  upon  the  average  of  every 
week. 

Sit  mihi  gratia  addita  ad  hac  facienda.'' 


About  this  time,  judging  by  the  hand-writing,  he  wrote 
down  the  following  admonitory  sentences,  which,  as  the 
paper  on  which  they  are  written  is  folded  into  the  shape 
of  a  very  small  book,  it  is  probable  he  carried  about  with 
him  as  a  manual. 

'  1 .  Death  and  judgment  are  near  at  hand. 


36  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

2.  Though  thy  bodily  part  be  now  in  health  and  ease, 
the  dews  of  death  will  soon  sit  upon  thy  forehead. 

3.  That  which  seems  so  sweet  and  desirable  to  thee 
now,  will,  if  yielded  to,  become  bitterness  of  soul  to  thee 
ail  thy  life  after. 

4.  When  the  waters  are  come  over  thy  soul,  and  when 
in  the  midst  of  mucii  bodily  anguish,  thou  distinguishest 
the  dim  shores  of  eternity  before  thee,  what  wouldst 
thou  not  give  to  be  lighter  by  this  one  sin  ! 

5.  God  has  long  withheld  his  arm  ;  what  if  his  for- 
bearance be  now  at  an  end  ^  Canst  thou  not  contem- 
plate these  things  with  the  eyes  of  death  ^  Art  thou 
not  a  dying  man,  dying  every  day,  every  hour  ? 

6.  Is  it  not  a  fearful  thing  to  shrink  from  the  summons 
when  it  comes  ?  to  turn  with  horror  and  despair  from 
the  future  being  ?  Think  what  strains  of  joy  and  tran- 
quillity fall  on  the  ear  of  the  saint  who  is  just  sv/ooning 
iiito  the  arms  of  his  Redeemer  ;  what  fearful  shapes  and 
dreadful  images  of  a  disturbed  conscience*^surround  the 
sinner's  bed,  when  the  last  twig  which  he  grasped  fails 
him,  and  the  gulf  yawns  to  receive  him. 

1.  Oh,  my  soul,  if  thou  art  yet  ignorant  of  the  enormi- 
ty of  sin,  turn  thine  eyes  to  the  man  who  is  bleeding  to 
death  on  the  cross  !  See  how  the  blood,  from  his  pierc- 
ed hands,  trickles  down  his  arms,  and  the  more  copious 
streams  from  his  feet  run  on  the  accursed  tree,  and  stain 
the  grass  with  purple  !  Behold  his  features,  though 
scarcely  animated  with  a  few  remaining  sparks  of  life, 
yet  how  full  of  love,  pity,  and  tranquillity  !  a  tear  is 
trickling  down  his  cheek,  and  his  lip  quivers. — He  is 
praying  for  his  murderers  !  Oh,  my  soul !  it  is  thy  Re- 
deemer—it is  thy  God  !  And  this  too  for  Sin— for  Sin  ! 
and  wilt  thou  ever  again  submit  to  its  yoke  ? 

8.  Remember  thatlhe  grace  of  the  holy  Spirit  of  God 
is  ready  to  save  thee  from  transgression.  It  is  always 
at  hand :  thou  canst  not  sin  without  wilfully  rejecting 
its  aid. 

9.  And  is  there  real  pleasure  in  sin  ?  Thou  knowest 
there  is  not.  But  there  is  pleasure,  pure  and  exquisite 
pleasure,  in  holiness.  The  holy  Ghost  can  make  the 
paths  of  religion  and  virtue,  hard  as  they  seem,  and 
thorny,  ways  of  pleasantness  and  peace,  where,  though 
there  be  thorns,  yet  are  there  also  roses  ;  and  where  all 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  37 

the  wounds  which  we  suffer  in  the  flesh,  from  the  hard- 
ness of  the  journey,  are  so  healed  by  the  balm  of  the 
Spirit,  that  they  rather  give  joy  than  pain.' 


The  exercise  which  Henry  took  was  no  relaxation  ; 
he  still  continued  the  habit  of  studying  while  he  walked  ; 
and  in  this  manner,  while  he  was  at  Cambridge,  com- 
mitted to  memory  a  whole  tragedy  of  Euripides.  Twice 
he  distinguished  himself  in  the  following  year,  being 
£igain  pronounced  first  at  the  great  college  examination, 
and  also  one  of  the  three  best  theme  writers,  between 
whom  the  examiners  could  not  decide.  The  college 
offered  him,  at  their  expense,  a  private  tutor  in  ma-the- 
matics  during  the  long  vacation  ;  and  Mr.  Catton,  by 
procuring  for  him  exhibitions  to  the  amount  of  66/.  per 
ann.  enabled  h;m  to  give  up  the  pecuniary  assistance 
which  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Simeon  and  other 
friends.  This  intention  he  had  expressed  in  a  letter, 
written  twelve  months  before  his  death.  'With  regard 
to  my  college  expenses,  (he  says,)  I  have  the  pleasure 
to  inform  you  that  I  shall  be  obliged,  in  strict  rectitude, 
to  wave  the  offers  of  many  of  my  friends.  I  shall  not 
even  need  the  sum  Mr.  Simeon  mentioned,  after  the  first 
year  ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  I  may  be  able  to  live 
without  any  assistance  at  all.  I  confess  I  feel  pleasure 
at  the  thought  of  this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of  in- 
dependence, but  because,  I  shall  then  give  a  more  unbi- 
assed testimony  to  the  truth,  than  if  I  were  supposed  to 
be  bound  to  it  by  any  ties  of  obligation  or  gratitude. 
I  shall  always  feel  as  much  indebted  for  intended  as  for 
actually  afforded  assistance  ;  and  though  I  should  never 
think  a  sense  of  thankfulness  an  oppressive  burden,  yet 
I  shall  be  happy  to  evince  it,  when  in  the  eyes  of  the  icorld 
the  obligation  to  it  has  been  discharged.'  Never,  per- 
haps, had  any  young  man,  in  so  short  a  time  excited 
such  expectations  ;  every  University  honor  was  thought 
to  be  within  his  reach  ;  he  was  set  down  as  a  medallist, 
and  expected  to  take  a  senior  wrangler's  degree  ;  but 
these  expectations  were  poison  to  him,  they  goaded  him 
to  fresh  exertions  when  his  strength  was  spent.  His 
situation  became  truly  miserable  !  to  his  brother,  and  to 
4 


38  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

his  mother,  he  wrote  always  that  he  had  relaxed  in  his 
studies,  and  that  he  was  better ;  always  holding  out  to 
them  his  hopes  and  his  good  fortune  :  but  to  the  most 
intimate  of  his  friends  (Mr.  Maddock)  his  letters  told  a 
different  tale  :  to  him  he  complained  of  dreadful  palpita- 
tions— of  nights  of  sleeplessness  and  horror,  and  of  spir- 
its depressed  to  the  very  depth  of  wretchedness,  so  that 
he  went  from  one  acquaintance  to  another,  imploring 
society,  even  as  a  starving  beggar  intreats  for  food. 
During  the  course  of  this  summer,  it  was  expected  that 
the  Mastership  of  the  Free-School  at  Nottingham  would 
shortly  become  vacant.  A  relation  of  his  family  was  at 
that  time  Mayor  of  the  town ;  he  suggested  to  them 
what  an  advantageous  situation  it  would  be  for  Henry, 
and  offered  to  secure  for  him  the  necessary  interest. 
But,  though  the  salary  and  emoluments  are  estimated 
at  from  4  to  600Z.  per  annum,  Henry  declined  the  offer  ; 
because,  had  he  accepted  it,  it  would  have  frustrated 
his  intentions  with  respect  to  the  ministry.  This  was 
certainly  no  common  act  of  forbearance  in  one  so  situ- 
ated as  to  fortune,  especially  as  the  hope  which  he  had 
most  at  heart,  was  that  of  being  enabled  to  assist  his 
family,  and  in  some  degree  requite  the  care  and  anxiety 
of  his  father  and  mother,  by  making  them  comfortable 
in  their  declining  years. 

The  indulgence  shown  him  by  his  college,  in  provi- 
ding him  a  tutor  during  the  long  vacation,  was  peculiarly 
unfortunate.  His  only  chance  of  life  was  from  relaxa- 
tion, and  home  was  the  only  place  where  he  would  have 
relaxed  to  any  purpose.  Before  this  time  he  had  seem- 
ed to  be  gaining  strength  ;  it  failed  as  the  year  advanc- 
ed ;  he  went  once  more  to  London  to  recruit  himself — 
the  worst  place  to  which  he  could  have  gone  ;  the  vari- 
ety of  stimulating  objects  there  hurried  and  agitated  him, 
and  when  he  returned  to  college,  he  was  so  completely 
ill,  that  no  power  of  medicine  could  save  him.  His  mind 
was  worn  out,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  his  medical  at- 
tendants, that  if  he  had  recovered,  his  intellect  would 
have  been  affected.  His  brother  Neville  was  just  at  this 
time  to  have  visited  him.  On  his  first  seizure,  Henry 
found  himself  too  ill  to  receive  him,  and  wrote  to  say 
so  ;  he  added,  with  that  anxious  tenderness  towards  the 
feelings  of  a  most  affectionate  family  which  always  apr 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  39 

peared  in  his  letters,  that  he  thought  himself  recover- 
ing" ;  but  his  disorder  increased  so  rapidly,  that  this  let- 
ter was  never  sent ;  it  was  found  in  his  pocket  after  his 
decease.  One  of  his  friends  wrote  to  acquaint  Neville 
with  his  danger  :  he  hastened  down  ;  but  Henry  was 
delirious  when  he  arrived. — He  knew  him  only  for  a  few 
moments  ;  the  next  day  sunk  into  a  state  of  stupor  ;  ano 
on  Sunday,  October  19th,  1806,  it  pleased  God  to  remove 
him  to  a  better  world,  and  a  hisrher  state  of  existence. 


The  will  which  I  had  manifested  to  serve  Henry,  he 
had  accepted  as  the  deed,  and  had  expressed  himself  up- 
on the  subject  in  terms  which  it  would  have  humbled  me 
to  read  at  any  other  time  than  when  I  was  performing 
the  last  service  to  his  memory.  On  his  decease,  Mr. 
B.  Maddock  addressed  a  letter  to  me,  informing  me  of 
the  event,  as  one  who  had  professed  an  interest  in  his 
friend's  fortunes.  I  inquired,  in  my  reply,  if  there  was 
any  intention  of  publishing  what  he  might  have  left,  and 
if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  in  the  publication ;  this 
led  to  a  correspondence  with  his  excellent  brother,  and 
the  whole  of  his  papers  were  consigned  into  my  hands, 
with  as  many  of  his  letters  as  could  be  collected. 

These  papers  (exclusive  of  the  correspondence)  filled 
a  box  of  considerable  size.  Mr.  Coleridge  was  present 
when  I  opened  them,  and  was,  as  well  as  myself,  equal- 
ly affected  and  astonished  at  the  proofs  of  industry  which 
they  displayed.  Some  of  them  had  been  written  before 
his  hand  was  formed,  probably  before  he  was  thirteen. 
There  were  papers  upon  law,  upon  electricity,  upon 
chymistry,  upon  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  from 
their  rudiments  to  the  higher  branches  of  critical  study, 
upon  history,  chronology,  divinity,  the  fathers,  &c. 
Nothing  seemed  to  have  escaped  him.  His  poems  werf 
numerous  :  among  the  earliest,  was  a  sonnet  addressed 
to  myself,  long  before  the  little  intercourse  which  had 
subsisted  between  us  had  taken  place.  Little  did  he 
think,  when  it  was  written,  on  what  occasion  it  would 
fall  into  my  hands.  He  had  begun  three  tragedies  when 
very  young  :  one  was  upon  Boadicea,  another  upon  Inez 
de  Castro ;  the  third  was  a  fictitious  subject — He  had 


40  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


planned  also  a  History  of  Nottingham.  There  was  a 
letter  also  upon  the  famous  Nottingham  election,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  intended  either  for  the  newspapers, 
or  for  a  separate  pamphlet.  It  was  written  to  confute 
the  absurd  stories  of  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  the  God- 
dess of  Reason,  with  the  most  minute  knowledge  of  the 
circumstances,  and  a  not  improper  feeling  of  indignation 
against  so  infamous  a  calumny;  and  this  came  with  more 
weight  from  him,  as  his  party  inclinations  seem  to  have 
leaned  towards  the  side  which  he  was  opposing.  This 
was  his  only  finished  coi^.position  in  prose.  Much  of  his 
time,  latterly,  had  been  devoted  to  the  study  of  Greek 
prosody  :  he  had  begun  several  poems  in  Greek,  and  a 
translation  of  the  Samson  Agonistes.  I  have  inspected 
all  the  existing  manuscripts  of  Chatterton,  and  they  ex- 
cited less  wonder  than  these. 

Had  my  knowledge  of  Henry  terminated  here,  I  should 
have  hardly  believed  that  my  admiration  and  regret  for 
him  could  have  been  increased ;  but  I  had  yet  to  learn 
that  his  moral  qualities,  his  good  sense,  and  his  whole 
feelings,  were  as  admirable  as  his  industry  and  genius. 
All  his  letters  to  his  family  have  been  communicated  to 
me  without  reserve,  and  most  of  those  to  his  friends.  A 
selection  from  these  are  arranged  in  chronological  order, 
in  these  volumes,  which  will  make  him  his  own  biogra- 
pher, and  lay  open  to  the  world  as  pure,  and  as  excel- 
lent a  heart,  as  it  ever  pleased  the  Almighty  to  warm 
with  life.  Much  has  been  suppressed,  which,  if  Henry 
had  been,  like  Chatterton,  of  another  generation,  I  should 
willingly  have  published,  and  the  world  would  willingly 
have  received  ;  but  in  doing  honor  to  the  dead,  I  have 
been  scrupulously  careful  never  to  forget  the  living. 

It  is  not  possible  to  conceive  a  human  being  more 
amiable  in  all  the  relations  of  life.  He  was  the  confiden- 
tial friend  and  adviser  of  every  member  of  his  family  ; 
this  he  instinctively  became  ;  and  the  thorough  good 
sense  of  his  advice  is  not  less  remarkable,  than  the  al- 
fection  with  which  it  is  always  connnunicated.  To  his 
mother,  he  is  as  earnest  in  beseeching  her  to  be  careful 
of  her  health,  as  he  is  in  laboring  to  convince  her  that 
his  own  complaints  were  abating  ;  his  letters  to  her  are 
always  of  hopes,  of  consolation,  and  of  love.  To  Neville 
he  writes  with  the  most  brotherly  intimacy,  still,  how- 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  41 

ever,  in  that  occasional  tone  of  advice  which  it  was  his 
nature  to  assume,  not  from  any  arrogance  of  superiority, 
but  from  earnestness  of  pure  affection.  To  his  younger 
brother  he  addresses  himself  like  the  tenderest  and  wis- 
est parent ;  and  to  two  sisters,  then  too  young  for  any 
other  communication,  he  writes  to  direct  their  studies, 
to  inquire  into  their  progress,  to  encourage  and  to  im- 
prove them.  Such  letters  as  these  are  not  for  the  pub- 
lic ;  but  they  to  whom  they  are  addressed  will  lay  them 
to  their  hearts,  like  relics,  and  will  find  in  them  a  saving 
virtue,  more  than  ever  relics  possessed. 

With  regard  to  his  poems,  the  criterion  for  selection 
was  not  so  plain  :  undoubtedly  many  have  been  chosen 
which  he  himself  would  not  have  published,  and  some 
few  which,  had  he  lived  to  have  taken  that  rank^among 
English  poets  which  would  assuredly  have  been  within 
his  reach,  I  also  should  then  have  rejected  among  his 
posthumous  papers.  I  have,  however,  to  the  best  of 
my  judgment,  selected  none  which  does  not  either  mark 
the  state  of  his  mind,  or  its  progress,  or  discover  evident 
proofs  of  what  he  would  have  been,  if  it  had  not  been 
the  will  of  Heaven  to  remove  him  so  soon.  The  reader, 
who  feels  any  admiration  for  Henry,  will  take  some  in- 
terest in  all  these  Remains,  because  they  are  his  ;  he 
who  shall  feel  none,  must  have  a  blind  heart,  and  there- 
fore a  blind  understanding.  Such  poems  are  to  be  con- 
sidered as  making  up  his  history.  But  the  greater 
number  are  of  such  beauty,  that  Chatterton  is  the  only 
youthful  poet  whom  he  does  not  leave  far  behind  him. 

While  he  v/as  under  Mr.  Grainger,  he  wrote  very  lit- 
tle ;  and  when  he  went  to  Cambridge,  he  was  advised 
to  stifle  his  poetical  fire,  for  severer  and  more  important 
studies  ;  to  lay  a  billet  on  the  embers  until  he  had  taken 
his  degree,  and  then  he  might  fan  it  into  a  flame  again. 
This  advice  he  followed  so  scrupulously,  that  a  few 
fragments,  written  chiefly  upon  the  back  of  his  mathe- 
matical papers,  are  all  which  he  produced  at  the  Uni- 
versity. The  greater  part,  therefore,  of  these  poems, 
indeed  nearly  the  whole  of  them,  were  written  before 
he  was  nineteen.  Wise  as  the  advice  may  have  been 
which  had  been  given  him,  it  is  now  to  be  regretted 
that  he  adhered  to  it,  his  latter  fragments  bearing  all 
those  marks  of  improvement  which  were  to  be  expected 
4" 


42  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

from  a  mind  so  rapidly  and  continually  progressive. 
Frequently  he  expresses  a  fear  that  early  death  would 
rob  him  of  his  fame  ;  yet,  short  as  his  life  was,  it  has 
been  long  enough  for  him  to  leave  works  worthy  of  re- 
membrance. The  very  circumstance  of  his  early  death 
gives  a  new  interest  to  his  memory,  and  thereby  new 
force  to  his  example.  Just  at  that  age  when  the  paint- 
er would  have  wished  to  fix  his  likeness,  and  the  lover 
of  poetry  would  delight  to  contemplate  him,  in  the  fair 
morning  of  his  virtues,  the  full  spring  blossom  of  his 
hopes, — just  at  that  age  hath  death  set  the  seal  of  eter- 
nity upon  him,  and  the  beautiful  hath  been  made  per- 
manent. To  the  young  poets  who  come  after  him, 
Henry  will  be  what  Chatterton  was  to  him  :  and  they 
v/ill  find  in  him  an  example  of  hopes,  with  regard  to 
worldly  fortune,  as  humble  ;  and  as  exalted  in  all  better 
things,  as  are  enjoined  equally  by  wisdom  and  religion, 
by  the  experience  of  man,  and  the  word  of  God.  And 
this  example  will  be  as  encouraging  as  it  is  excellent. 
It  had  been  too  much  the  custom  to  complain  that  ge- 
nius is  neglected,  and  to  blame  the  public  when  the 
public  is  not  in  fault.  They  who  are  thus  lamented  as 
the  victims  of  genius,  have  been,  in  almost  every  in- 
stance, the  victims  of  their  own  vices  ;  while  genius  has 
been  made,  like  charity,  to  cover  a  multitude  of  sins, 
and  to  excuse  that  which  in  reality  it  aggravates.  In 
this  age,  and  in  this  country,  whoever  deserves  encour- 
agement, is  sooner  or  later,  sure  to  receive  it.  Of  this 
Henry's  history  is  an  honorable  proof  The  particular 
patronage  which  he  accepted,  was  given  as  much  to  his 
piety  and  religious  opinions,  as  to  his  genius  ;  but  assist- 
ance was  offered  him  from  other  quarters.  Mr.  P. 
Thomson,  of  Boston  (Lincolnshire),  merely  upon  peru- 
sing his  little  volume,  wrote  to  know  how  he  could  serve 
him  ;  and  there  were  many  friends  of  literature  who 
were  ready  to  have  afforded  him  any  support  which  he 
needed,  if  he  had  not  been  thus  provided.  In  the  Uni- 
versity, he  received  every  encouragement  which  he 
merited,  and  from  Mr.  Simeon,  and  his  tutor,  Mr.  Cat- 
ton,  the  most  fatherly  kindness. 

'  I  can  venture,'  says  a  lady  of  Cambridge,  in  a  letter 
to  his  brother,  '  I  can  venture  to  say,  with  certainty, 
there  was  no  member  of  the  University,  however  high 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  43 

his  rank  or  talents,  who  would  not  have  been  happy  to 
have  availed  themselves  of  the  opportunity  of  being  ac- 
quainted v/ith  Mr.  Henry  Kirke  White.  I  mention  this 
to  introduce  a  wish,  which  has  been  expressed  to  me  so 
often  by  the  senior  members  of  the  University,  that  I 
dare  not  decline  the  task  they  have  imposed  upon  me  ; 
it  is  their  hope  that  Mr.  Southey  will  do  as  much  justice 
to  Mr.  Henry  White's  limited  wishes,  to  his  unassuming 
pretensions,  and  to  his  rational  and  fervent  piety,  as  to 
his  various  acquirements,  his  polished  taste,  his  poetical 
fancy,  his  undeviating  principles,  and  the  excellence  of 
his  moral  character  ;  and  that  he  will  suffer  it  to  be  un- 
derstood, that  these  inestimable  qualities  had  not  been 
unobserved,  nor  would  they  have  remained  unacknow- 
ledged. It  was  the  general  observation,  that  he  possess- 
ed genius  without  its  eccentricities.' 

Of  his  fervent  piety,  his  letters,  his  prayers,  and  his 
hymns,  will  afford  ample  and  interesting  proofs.  I  must 
be  permitted  to  say,  that  my  own  views  of  the  religion 
of  Jesus  Christ  differ  essentially  from  the  system  of  be- 
lief which  he  had  adopted ;  but,  having  said  this,  it  is 
indeed  my  anxious  wish  to  do  full  justice  to  piety  so  fer- 
vent. It  was  in  him  a  living  and  quickening  principle 
of  goodness,  which  sanctified  all  his  hopes,  and  all  his 
affections ;  which  made  him  keep  watch  over  his  own 
heart,  and  enabled  him  to  correct  the  few  symptoms, 
which  it  ever  displayed,  of  human  imperfection. 

His  temper  had  been  irritable  in  his  younger  days, 
but  this  he  had  long  since  effectually  overcome  :  the 
marks  of  youthful  confidence,  v/hich  appear  in  his  earli- 
est letters,  had  also  disappeared  ;  and  it  was  impossible 
for  man  to  be  more  tenderly  patient  of  the  faults  of  oth- 
ers, more  uniformly  meek,  or  more  unaffectedly  humble. 
He  seldom  discovered  any  sportiveness  of  imagination, 
though  he  would  very  ably,  and  pleasantly,  rally  any 
one  of  his  friends  for  any  little  peculiarity  :  his  conver- 
sation was  always  sober,  and  to  the  purpose.  That 
which  is  most  remarkable  in  him,  is  his  uniform  good 
sense,  a  faculty  perhaps  less  common  than  genius.  There 
never  existed  a  more  dutiful  son,  a  more  affectionate  « 
brother,  a  warmer  friend,  nor  a  devouter  Christian.  Of 
his  powers  of  mind  it  is  superfluous  to  speak  ;  they  were 
acknowledged  wherever  they  were  known.     It  would 


44  HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

be  idle  too,  to  say,  what  hopes  were  entertained  of  him,, 
and  what  he  might  have  accomplished  in  literature. 
These  volumes  contain  what  he  has  left,  immature  buds, 
and  blossoms  shaken  from  the  tree,  and  green  fruit ;  yet 
will  they  evince  what  the  harvest  would  have  been,  and 
secure  for  him  that  remembrance  upon  earth  for  v/hich 
he  toiled. 


'  Thou  soul  of  God'g  best  earthly  mould, 

Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 

That  these        .... 

Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  !  '—Woodsworth. 


CONTENTS, 


Original  Preface  to  Clifton  Grove    47 
Lines,  by  Professor  Smyth,  of  Cam- 
bridge, on  a  Monument  erected  by 
Francis  Boot,  Esq.  in  All-Saints' 
Church,  Cambridge,  to  the  Mem- 
ory of  Henry  Kirke  White  -     49 
Line's,  by  Lord  Byron         -         -         49 
To  my  Lyre ;  an  Ode     -        -         -    51 
Clifton  Grove     -        -        -        -        53 
GondoHne;  a  Ballad       -         -         -     55 
Written  on  a  Survey  of  the  Heavens, 

in  the  Morning  before  Day-break  74 
Lines  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a 

Lover  at  the  Grave  of  his  Mistress  76 
My  Study  -        ...        77 

To  an  early  Primrose     -        -        -    80 
Sonnet  1.  To  the  Trent      -        -        81 

2.  "  Give  me   a  cottage  on 

some  Cambrian  wild"  -         -     81 

3.  Supposed  to  have  been  ad- 

di-essed  by  a  Female  Ltmatic  to  a 

Lady 82 

4.  lu  the  Character  of  Der- 

mody  -         -         -         -         -     82 

5.  The  Winter  Traveller        83 

6.  By  Capel  Lofft,  Esq.      -    83 

7.  Recantatory  in    Reply         84 

8.  On   hearing   an    ^olian 

Harp 84 

9.  "What  art  tliou,  Migh- 
ty One"       ...        -        85 
A  Ballad.     "  Be  ^msh'd,  be  hush'd, 

ye  bitter  winds"  -         -         -     85 

The  Lullaby  of  a  Female  Convict  to 

her  child  -         -         -         -         86 

Ode  to  H.  Fuseli,  Esq.  R.  A.  -     87 

to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle         -         90 

Description  of  a  Summer's  Eve  -  92 
To  Contemplation  -  -  -  93 
To  the  Genius  of  Romance.  Frag- 
ment -  -  -  -  -  97 
The  Savoyard's  Return  -  -  98 
Line«.     "Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and 

sav,' Be  still!'"  -  -  -  99 
Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death  100 
Pastoral    Song.       "  Come,    Anna, 

come"  .  -  -  -  -  101 
Verses 102 


Epigram  on  Robert  Bloomfield        -  103 
Ode  to  Midnight         -        -        -       103 
— .—  to  Thought.    Written  at  Mid- 
night   104 

Genius;  an  Ode  ...      106 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  the  Moon       108 

. *'  Loud  rage  the   winds 

without" 109 

"Oh,  thou  most  fatal  of 

Pandora's  train"  -  -  -  110 
Sonnet.     To  Capel  Lofft,  Esq.       -  111 

To  the  Moon  -        -       112 

Written  at  the  Grave  of  a 

Friend 112 

To  Misfortune         -        -       113 

"  As    thus   oppress'd   with 

many  a  heavy  care"   .        .        -  113 

:  To  April         ...      113 

"  Ye  unseen  spirits"  -        -  114 

To  a  Taper    -        -         -      114 

To  my  Mother   -        -        -  115 

"  Yes,      'twill     be     over 

soon"  ....       115 

To  Consumption         -        -  116 

"  Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are 

just" 116 

To  a  Friend  in  Distress,  who,  when 
Henry  reasoned  with  him  calm- 
ly, asked.  If  he   did  not  feel  for 

him-? 117 

Christmas  day    -         -         -         -       118 
Nelsoni  Mors  -         -         -         -  120 

Hymn.     "  Awake,   sweet  harp    of 

■Judah,  wake"  -         -         -       121 

Hymn  for  Family  Worship     -         -  122 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem        -        -       123 
Hynui.     "  O  Lord,  my  God,  in  mer- 
cy turn"    -        .        -        -        -  124 
Melody.      "  Yes,  once  more   that 

dying  strain"  -         -         -       125 

Song,  by  W^aller,  with  an  additional 

sfani  -  -  -  -  -125 
"  I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad"  126 
Solitude  -  -  -  -  -  12^ 
"If   far  from   me    the    Fates    re- 

move"    -----       1^ 
"  Fanny,  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not 
lie" -  129 


46 


CONTENTS. 


FRAGMENTS. 

I.  «  Saw'st  thou  that  light  1  "       130 
II.  "  The  pious  man  in  tliis  bad 

world"  -        -        -  130 

III.  "  Lo  !    on  the   eastern   sum- 

mit" -        -        -       131 

IV.  "  There    was    a    little    bird 

upon  that  pile"    -         -  131 

V.  "  O  pale  art  thou,  my  lamp"  131 

VI.  "  O  give  me  music"      -        -  132 
VIL  "  Ah  !  who  can  say,  however 

fair  his  view"   -        -  132 

VIII.  "  And  must  thou  go  1  "        -  133 
IX.  "  When  I  sit  musing  on  the 

checker'd   past"        -  133 
X.  **  When   high  romance,  o'er 

every  wood  and  stream"  134 

XI.  "  Hush'd  is  the  lyre"        -  134 
XII.  "  Once   more,  and   yet  once 

more"           -        -        -  134 

Time 135 

Childhood,  Part  I.         -        -        -  151 

II.      -        -        -  155 

Fragment  of  an  Eccentric  Drama  162 

To  a  Friend       ....  167 

On   reading  the  Poems  of  Warton  168 

To  the  Muse      .        -        -        -  169 
To  Love        -        -        -        -        -170 

The  Wandering  Boy           -        -  171 

Fragment.     "The    western    gale"  171 

Ode,  written  on  Whit-Monday    -  173 

Canzonet 175 

Commencement  of  a  Poem  on  Des- 
pair         175 

To  the  Wind ;  a  Fragment     -        -  177 

The  Eve  of  Death      -        -        -  177 


Thanatos       -        -        ,        -        -  178 

Athanatos           ....  n^ 

On  Music ISa 

Ode  to  the  Harvest  Moon  -        •  182 
Song.     "  Softly,    softly     blow,    ye 

breezes" 184 

The  Shipwreck'd  Solitary's  Song  185 

Sonnet 187 

The  Christiad      -        -        -  187 

TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 

Lines   and   Note,  by   Lord   Byron  197 

written  in  the  Homer  of  Mr. 

H.  K.  White  -        -        -      198 

To  the  Memory  of  H.  K.  White,  by 
a  Lady 199 

Stanzas,  supposed  to  have  been  writ- 
ten at  the  grave  of  H.  K.  White, 
by  a  Lady       -         -         -         .       201 

Ode  on  the  late  H.  K.  White         -  202 

Verses  occasioned  by  the  Death  of 
H.  K.  White,  by  Josiah  Conder       203 

Sonnet  by  Arthur  Owen  -         -  204 

in   Memory  of  Mr.  H.  K. 

White    -        -        -        -        -      205 

Reflections  on  reading  the  Life  of  the 
late  H.  K.  White,  by  William 
Halloway  -        -        -        -  205 

Lines,  on  reading  the  Poem  on  Soli- 
tude, by  Josiah  Conder   -        -      207 

To  the  Memory  of  H.  K.  White  by 
the  Rev.  W.  B.  Collyer,  A.  M.  207 

On  the  Death  of  H.  K.  White,  by 
T.  Park         ....      208 


Prose  Remains 


211—420 


PREFACE. 


The  following  attempts  in  Verse  are  laid  before  the 
public  with  extreme  diffidence.  The  Author  is  very  con- 
scious that  the  juvenile  efforts  of  a  youth,  who  has  not 
received  the  polish  of  Academical  discipline,  and  who 
has  been  but  sparingly  blessed  with  opportunities  for  the 
prosecution  of  scholastic  pursuits,  must  necessarily  be 
defective  in  the  accuracy  and  finished  elegance  which 
mark  the  works  of  the  man  who  has  passed  his  life  in 
the  retirement  of  his  study,  furnishing  his  mind  with 
images,  and  at  the  same  time  attaining  the  power  of  dis- 
posing those  images  to  the  best  advantage. 

The  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a  boy,  from  his  thir- 
teenth year,  employed,  not  in  the  acquisition  of  literary 
information,  but  in  the  more  active  business  of  life,  must 
not  be-  expected  to  exhibit  any  considerable  portion  of 
the  correctness  of  a  Virgil,  or  the  vigorous  compression 
of  a  Horace.  Men  are  not,  I  believe,  frequently  known 
to  bestow  much  labor  on  their  amusements  :  and  these 
Poems  were,  most  of  them,  written  merely  to  beguile  a 
leisure  hour,  or  to  fill  up  the  languid  intervals  of  studies 
of  a  severer  nature. 

nag  TO  oiKuoi  i^yov  uyccTTxcoy '  Evcry  ouc  lovcs  his  owu  work,' 
says  the  Stacryrite  ;  but  it  was  no  overweening  affec- 
tion of  this  kind  which  induced  this  publication.  Had 
the  author  relied  on  his  ov\ai  judgment  only,  these  Poems 
would  not,  in  all  probability,  ever  have  seen  the  light. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  asked  of  him,  what  are  his  motives 
for  this  publication  ?  He  answers— simply  these  :  The 
facilitation,  through  its  means,  of  those  studies  which, 
from  his  earliest  infancy,  have  been  the  principal  objects 


4S  PREFACE. 

of  his  ambition  ;  and  the  increase  of  the  capacity  to  pur- 
sue those  incHnations  which  may  one  day  place  him  in 
an  honorable  station  in  the  scale  of  society. 

The  principal  Poem  in  this  little  collection  (Clifton 
Grove)  is,  he  fears,  deficient  in  numbers  and  harmoni- 
ous coherency  of  parts.  It  is,  however,  merely  to  be 
regarded  as  a  description  of  a  nocturnal  ramble  in  that 
charming  retreat,  accompanied  with  such  reflections  as 
the  scene  naturally  suggested.  It  was  written  twelve 
months  ago,  when  the  author  was  in  his  sixteenth  year. 
— The  Miscellanies  are  some  of  them  the  productions  of 
a  very  early  age. — Of  the  Odes,  that  '  To  an  early  Prim- 
rose '  was  written  at  thirteen — the  others  are  of  a  later 
date. — The  Sonnets  are  chiefly  irregular ;  they  have, 
perhaps,  no  other  claim  to  that  specific  denomination, 
than  that  they  consist  only  of  fourteen  lines. 

Such  are  the  Poems  towards  which  I  entreat  the  len- 
ity of  the  public.  The  critic  will  doubtless  find  in  them 
much  to  condemn ;  he  may  likewise  possibly  discover 
something  to  commend.  Let  him  scan  my  faults  with 
an  indulgent  eye,  and  in  the  work  of  that  correction 
which  I  invite,  let  him  remember  he  is  holding  the  iron 
Mace  of  Criticism  over  the  flimsy  superstructure  of  a 
youth  of  seventeen,  and,  remembering  that,  may  he  for- 
bear from  crushing,  by  too  much  rigor,  the  painted  but- 
terfly whose  transient  colors  may  otherwise  be  capable 
of  affording  a  moment's  innocent  amusement. 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

Nottingham. 


INSCRIPTION 

BY  WILLIAM  SMYTH,  ESQ.   PROFESSOR  OF  MODERN   IlLSTORY 
CAMBRIDGE ; 

ON   A  MONUMENTAL  TABLET, 

WITH  A  MEDALLION  BY  CHANTREY, 

ERECTED  IN  ALL-SAINTS'  CHURCH,  CAMBRIDGE, 

AT  THE  EXPENSE  OF  FRANCIS  BOOTT,  ESQ. 

OF  BOSTON,  UNITED  STATES. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 

BORN  MARCH  21st,  1785;  DIED  OCTOBER  10th,  1S06. 

Warm  with  fond  hope,  and  learning's  sacred  flame, 
To  Granta's  bowers  the  youthful  Poet  came  ; 
Unconquer'd  powers,  th'  immortal  mind  display 'd, 
But  worn  with  anxious  thought  the  frame  decay'd  : 
Pale  o'er  his  lamp  and  in  his  cell  retired, 
The  Martyr  Student  faded  and  expired. 
0  Genius,  Taste,  and  Piety  sincere. 
Too  early  lost,  midst  duties  too  severe  ! 
Foremost  to  mourn  was  generous  South ey  seen, 
He  told  the  tale  and  show'd  what  White  had  been, 
Nor  told  in  vain — far  o'er  th'  Atlantic  wave, 
A  Wanderer  came  and  sought  the  Poet's  grave  ;       ' 
On  yon  low  stone  he  saw  his  lonely  name, 
And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame. 

W.  S. 


LINES 

BY    LORD    BYRON. 


No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  Statues  there  are  seen  to  weep  : 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb. 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
5 


TO   MY  LYRE, 

AN  ODE. 


Thou  simple  Lyre  !— Thy  music  wild 

Has  served  to  charm  the  weary  hour, 
And  many  a  lonely  night  has  'guiled, 
>VT\en  even  pain  has  own'd  and  smiled, 
Its  fascinating"  power. 

II. 

Yet,  oh  my  Lyre  !  the  busy  crowd 

Will  little  heed  thy  simple  tones : 
Them  mightier  minstrels  harping  loud 
Engross, — and  thou  and  I  must  shroud 
Where  dark  oblivion  'thrones. 

III. 

No  hand,  thy  diapason  o'er. 

Well  skill'd,  I  throw  with  sweep  sublime  ; 
For  me,  no  academic  lore 
Has  taught  the  solemn  strain  to  pour, 

Or  build  the  polish'd  rhyme. 

IV. 

Yet  thou  to  Sylvan  themes  canst  soar  ; 

Thou  know'st  to  charm  the  icoodland  train 
The  rustic  swains  believe  thy  power 
Can  hush  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 

And  still  the  billowy  main. 


52 


TO    MY    LYRE. AN    ODE. 


These  honors,  Lyre,  we  yet  may  keep, 
I,  still  unknown,  may  live  with  thee, 
And  gentle  zephyr's  wing  will  sweep 
Thy  solenm  string,  where  low  I  sleep, 
Beneath  the  alder  tree. 

VI. 

This  little  dirge  will  please  me  more 

Than  the  full  requiem's  swelling  peal ; 
I'd  rather  than  that  crowds  should  sigh 
For  me,  that  from  some  kindred  eye 
The  trickling  tear  should  steal. 

VII. 

Vet  dear  to  me  the  wreath  of  bay. 

Perhaps  from  me  debarr'd  : 
And  dear  to  me  the  classic  zone, 
Which,  snatch'd  from  learning's  labor'd  throne, 

Adorns  the  accepted  bard. 

VIII. 

And  0  !  if  yet  'twere  mine  to  dwell 

Where  Cam  or  Isis  winds  along, 
Perchance,  inspired  with  ardor  chaste, 
I  yet  might  call  the  ear  of  taste 

To  listen  to  my  song. 

IX. 

Oh  !  then,  my  little  friend,  thy  style 

I'd  change  to  happier  lays, 
Oh  !  then,  the  cloister'd  glooms  should  smile, 
And  through  the  long,  the  fretted  aisle 

Should  swell  the  note  of  praise. 


CLIFTOIV   GROVE* 


A  SKETCH  IN  VERSE. 


Lo  !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light,      v 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured  stroke, 
Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle  broke  ; 
No  more  hoarse  clamoring  o'er  the  uplifted  head. 
The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  wind-rock'd  bed  ; 
Still'd  is  the  village  hum— the  woodland  sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds, 
And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below, 
The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow ; 
And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late, 
Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate  ; 
Or  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  vale, 
Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 

Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 
Released  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil. 
And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire, 
And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  tire  ; 
Or  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise, 
And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies, 
The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  laboring  loom. 
The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room, 
And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
The  stated  course  of  customary  sin  ; 
Now,  nov/  my  solitary  way  I  bend 
Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend. 
And  cliffs,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain, 
Bespeak,  bless'd  Clifton  !  thv  sublime  domain. 
5* 


54  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Here,  lonely  wandering*  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 

I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hoar ; 

To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease, 

And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 

And  oh  !  thou  sacred  Power,  who  rear'st  on  high 

Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh  ! 

Genius  of  woodland  shades  !  v/hose  mild  control 

Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 

Come  with  thy  wonted  ardor,  and  inspire 

My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallowed  lire. 

And  thou  too,  Fancy,  from  thy  starry  sphere. 

Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  ear. 

Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish'd  sight, 

Veil'd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  delight. 

At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 

Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 

Thou  wav'st  thy  wand,  and  lo  !  what  forms  appear  ! 

On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career  ? 

The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale. 

And  hosts  of  Sylphids  on  the  moon-beams  sail. 

This  gloomy  alcove,  darkling  to  the  sight, 
Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night ; 
Save,  when  from  yonder  stream,  the  sunny  ray, 
Reilected,  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day  ; 
Recalls,  endearing  to  my  alter'd  mind. 
Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclinea, 
I  watch 'd  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood  ; 
Or  lured  the  robin  to  its  scatter'd  food  ; 
Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild, 
And  at  each  gay  response  delighted  smiled. 
How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 
Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day. 
Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  boy, 
^Vhen  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky, 
And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm  ; 
And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost  soul, 
His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll 
With  secret  joy,  I  view'd  with  vivid  glare 
The  volley'd  liglitnings  cleave  the  sullen  air ; 
And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled. 
With  awful  pleasure  big, — I  heard  and  smiled. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  56 

Beloved  remembrance  ! — Memory  which  endears 

This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 

Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest, 

In  shades  like  these  to  live  is  to  be  bless'd. 

While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd, 

In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 

And  thou  too,  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 

Shoots  with  electric  swiftness  through  the  frame, 

Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit  with  up-turn'd  eye, 

And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by. 

The  woods  that  wave,  the  gray  owl's  silken  flight. 

The  mellow  m.usic  of  the  listening  night. 

Congenial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 

Thaii  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  dress'd. 

To  Heaven  my  prayers,  ray  daily  prayers,  I  raise,  ^ 

That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days. 

Withdrawn,  remote,  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife, 

May  trace  Avith  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life. 

And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  wave, 

May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 

Now  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 

A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 

No  more  above  th'  embracing  branches  meet, 

No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet. 

But  seen  deep,  down  the  cliff's  impending  side. 

Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tide. 

Dim  is  my  upland  path, — across  the  green 

Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 

The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste  ray  sheds. 

Where  knots  of  "blue-bells  droop  their  graceful  heads. 

And  beds  of  violets  blooming  'mid  the  trees. 

Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 

Say,  why  does  Man,  while  to  his  opening  sight 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow, 
x\nd  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, 
Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
Why  clasp  the  siren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath, 
Though  fL-aught  Vvdth  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  cUngs, 


56  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs  ; 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from  strife, 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life. 
No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure. 
But  the  sweet  potion  he  was  wont  to  sip, 
Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

Fair  Nature  !  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms. 
Fain  would  I  clasp  forever  in  my  arms  ! 
Thine  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
Thine  still  remain  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
Though  not  for  me,  'twas  Heaven's  divine  command 
To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land. 
Yet  still  my  lot  is  bless'd,  while  I  enjoy 
Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 

Has  ever  shunn'd  him  when  he  thought  to  kiss, 

Who,  still  in  abject  poverty  or  pain. 

Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain  : 

Though  were  his  sight  convey 'd  from  zone  to  zone, 

He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own, 

Yet,  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee. 

These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me  : 

For  me  yon  waving  fields  their  burden  bear, 

For  me  yon  laborer  guides  the  shining  share. 

While  happy  I  in  idle  ease  recline. 

And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 

This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told, 

Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 

Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  fortune  placed, 

Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desert  waste. 

How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height, 
Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight  ! 
O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
E'en  to  the  blue-ridged  hill's  remotest  bound, 
My  ken  is  borne  ;  while  o'er  my  head  serene. 
The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene  ; 
Now  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade, 
In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  57 

Behind  me,  lo  !  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies, 

The  drowsy  god  has  seal'd  the  cotter's  eyes. 

No  more,  where  late  the  social  fagot  blazed, 

The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  raised ; 

But  lock'd  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's*  star 

The  slumbering  Night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car  : 

The  church-bell  tolls,  deep-sounding  down  the  glade, 

The  solemn  hour  for  walking  spectres  made  ; 

The  simple  plough-boy,  wakening  with  the  sound, 

Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round. 

Then  stops  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes. 

Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 

Now  ceased  the  long,  and  monitory  toll, 

Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul  ; 

Save  when,  disturb'd  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright,^ 

The  deep  mouth 'd  mastiff  bays  the  troubled  night : 

Or  where  the  village  ale-house  crowns  the  vale, 

The  creeking  sign -post  whistles  to  the  gale. 

A  little  onward  tet  me  bend  my  way. 

Where  the  moss'd  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay. 

That  spot,  oh  !  yet  it  is  the  very  same  ; 

That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  it  name  : 

There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom. 

There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume, 

And  in  the  branch  that  rears  above  the  rest 

The  robin  unmolested  builds  its  nest. 

'Twas  here,  when  Hope,  presiding  o'er  my  breast, 

In  vivid  colors  every  prospect  dress'd  : 

'Twas  here,  reclining,  I  indulged  her  dreams. 

And  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 

Here,  as  I  press  once  more  the  ancient  seat, 

Why,  bland  deceiver  !  not  renew  the  cheat ! 

Say,  can  a  few  short  years  this  change  achieve. 

That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive  ! 

Time's  sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'erspread. 

And  thou  too,  gay  seducer  !  art  t/wu  fled  ? 

Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  the  suit  severe. 

Yet  thou  couldst  guile  Misfortune  of  her  tear. 

And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way. 

Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 


*  The  ConsitelUuion  Delphinug.     For  autliority  for  this  appellation,  vide  Ovid's 
Fasti,  B.  xi.  113. 


58  COMPLETE    WORKS 

How  gay,  in  youth,  the  flattering  future  seems  ; 

How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams  ; 

The  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brought  to  hght, 

And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  night. 

Yet  some  can  rise  superior  to  their  pain. 

And  in  their  breasts  the  charmer  Hope  retain  : 

While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey. 

Unmoved,  their  fairest  prospects  fade  away  : 

But  yet  a  few  there  be, — too  soon  o'ercast ! 

Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast. 

And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  which  breaks  the  gloom. 

To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

So  in  these  shades  the  early  primrose  blows. 

Too  soon  deceived  by  suns  and  melting  snows, 

So  falls  untimely  on  the  desert  waste  ; 

Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northern  blast. 

Now  pass'd  whate'er  the  upland  heights  display, 

Down  the  steep  cliff  I  wind  my  devious  way ; 

Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat. 

The  timid  hare  from  its  accustom 'd  seat. 

And  oh  !  how  sweet  this  walk  o'erhung  with  wood> 

That  winds  the  margin  of  the  solemn  flood  ! 

What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight ! 

What  rising  views  prolong  the  calm  delight ; 

The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 

The  whispering   birch  by  every  zephyr  bent. 

The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead. 

The  lowly  hut  half  hid  in  groves  of  reed, 

The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile. 

And,  frequent  interspersed,  the  woodman's  pile. 

Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  my  eyes. 

Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise. 

High  up  the  cliff  the  varied  groves  ascend. 

And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 

Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds  arise. 

What  glimmering  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes  : 

Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed. 

The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  my  drooping  head. 

And,  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind, 

Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 

Still,  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight 

Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night, 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE. 


59 


Save  when  is  heard,  between  each  dreary  rest, 
Discordant  from  her  soUtary  nest, 
The  owl,  dull-screaming  to  the  wandering  moon  ; 
Now  riding,  cloud-wrapp'd,  near  her  highest  noon  : 
Or  when  the  wild-duck,  southing,  hither  rides, 
And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 

How  oft,  in  this  sequestered  spot,  when  youth 

Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth. 

Have  I  long  linger'd,  while  the  milk-maid  sung 

The  tragiclegend,  till  the  woodland  rung  ! 

That  tale,  so  sad !  which,  still  to  memory  dear. 

From  its  sweet  source  can  call  the  sacred  tear. 

And  (lulled  to  rest  stern  Reason's  harsh  control) 

Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul. 

These  hallow'd  shades, — these  trees  that  woo  the  wind. 

Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 

A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  sublime, 

Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  wing  of  time, 

Since,  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 

Reclusely  dwelt  the  far-famed  Clifton  Maid, 

The  beauteous  Margaret ;  for  her  each  swain 

Confess'd  in  private  his  peculiar  pain, 

In  secret  sigh'd,  a  victim  to  despair. 

Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 

No  more  the  shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead 

Attuned  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed. 

No  more  entwined  the  pansied  wreath,  to  deck 

His  favorite  wether's  unpolluted  neck. 

But  listless,  by  yon  babbling  stream  reclined, 

He  mixed  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind, 

Bemoan'd  his  hapless  love  ;  or,  boldly  bent, 

Far  from  these  smiling  fields,  a  rover  went, 

O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease,  to  roam, 

A  self-will'd  exile  from  his  native  home. 

Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  express'd  disdain ; 

Her  Bateman  loved,  nor  loved  the  youth  in  vain. 

Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs, 

The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows, 

As  here  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 

Enamor'd  oft,  they  took  their  secret  way. 


60  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustic's  name  ; 
'Twas  there  the  blushing  maid  confess'd  her  flame. 
Down  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie, 
When  evening  slumber'd  on  the  western  sky. 
That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare, 
Each  bears  mementos  of  the  fated  pair. 

One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  every  breeze 

With  the  fall'n  honors  of  the  mourning  trees. 

The  maiden  waited  at  the  accustom'd  bower. 

And  waited  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour. 

Yet  Bateman  came  not  : — o'er  the  woodland  drear, 

Howling  portentous,  did  the  winds  career  ; 

And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods. 

The  fitful  rains  rush'd  down  in  sudden  floods  ; 

The  night  was  dark  ;  as,  now  and  then,  the  gale 

Paused  for  a  moment, — Margaret  listen'd,  pale  ; 

But  through  the  covert  to  her  anxious  ear, 

No  rustling  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near. 

Strange  fears  now  filPd  her  breast, — she  knew  not  why, 

She  sigh'd,  and  Bateman's  name  was  in  each  sigh. 

She  hears  a  noise, — 'tis  he, — he  comes  at  last ; — 

Alas  !  'twas  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past : 

But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound, 

Lightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound  ; 

'Tis  Bateman's  self, — he  springs  into  her  arms, 

'Tis  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 

'  Yet  why  this  silence  ? — I  have  waited  long. 

And  the  cold  storm  has  yell'd  the  trees  among. 

And  now  thou'rt  here  my  fears  are  fled — yet  speak, 

Why  does  the  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek  ? 

Say,  what  is  wrong  ?' — Now,  through  a  parting  cloud, 

The  pale  moon  peer'd  from  her  tempestuous  shroud, 

And  Bateman's  face  was  seen  : — 'twas  deadly  white, 

And  sorrow  seem'd  to  sicken  in  his  sight. 

'  Oh,  speak,  my  love  !'  again  the  maid  conjured, 

'  Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  wo  immured  ? ' 

He  raised  his  head,  and  thrice  essay'd  to  tell. 

Thrice  from  his  lips  the  unfinish'd  accents  fell ; 

When  thus  at  last  reluctantly  he  broke 

His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke  : 

'  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  morn  advance, 

I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  61 

For  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
I  go  to  languish  in  a  foreign  land. 
Oh,  Margaret !  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  r 
Should  honors  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me, 
And,  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclined. 
Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  why,'  replies  the  maid,  'my  faith  thus  prove, 

Canst  thou  !  ah,  canst  thou,  then  suspect  my  love  ? 

Hear  me,  just  God  !  if  from  my  traitorous  heart. 

My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part, 

If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore. 

He  finds  his  Margaret  true  to  him  no  more. 

May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  power  of  dread, 

Conjoin'd,  then  drag  me  from  my  perjured  bed. 

And  hurl  me  headlong  down  these  awful  steeps. 

To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps  ! '  * 

Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drew 

A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two  ; 

One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides. 

The  other,  trembling,  to  her  love  confides.  ^ 

'  This  bind  the  vow,'  she  said,  'this  mystic  charm, 

No  future  recantation  can  disarm. 

The  right  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve. 

No  tears  can  move  it,  no  regrets  dissolve.' 

She  ceased.     The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  cry. 
The  river  moan'd,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by, 
And  once  again  the  Lady  of  the  night 
Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  light. 
Trembling  she  view'd  these  portents  with  dismay  : 
But  gently  Bateman  kiss'd  her  fears  away  : 
Yet  still  he  felt  conceal'd  a  secret  smart, 
Still  melancholy  bodings  fill'd  his  heart. 

When  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 

A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led. 

Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each  well-known  walk, 

Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk, 

*  This  part  of  the  Trent  is  commonly  cnlled  '  The  Clifton  Deem.'' 

6 


Q2  COMPLETE    WORKS 

And  fancy,  as  she  paced  among  the  trees, 
She  heard  his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 
Thus  two  y(  ars  glided  on  in  silent  grief ; 
The  third,  her  bosom  own'd  the  kind  relief ! 
Absence  had  cooled  her  love — the  impoverish'd  flame 
Was  dwindling  fast,  when  lo  !  the  tempter  came  ; 
He  offer'd  wealth,  and  all  the  joys  of  life. 
And  the  weak  maid  became  another's  wife  ! 

Six  guilty  months  had  mark'd  the  false  one's  crime, 

When  Bateman  hail'd  once  more  his  native  clime. 

Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came. 

The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim. 

Light  was  his  heart,  as  up  the  well-known  way 

He  bent  his  steps — and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 

Oh  !  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes, 

When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose  ! 

Chill 'd  with  amazement, — senseless  with  the  blow, 

He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  wo  ; 

Till  call'd  to  all  the  horror.i  of  despair. 

He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair  ; 

Then  rush'd  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot, 

And  sought  those  scenes,  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot,) 

Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame, 

And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 

'Twas  night — he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore, 

And  traced  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 

Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood, 

And  gazed  intently  on  the  stealing  flood, 

Death  in  his  mien  and  madness  in  his  eye. 

He  watch'd  the  waters  as  they  murmur'd  by  ; 

Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave — 

Prepared  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 

Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent. 

Religion  sternly  stay'd  his  rash  intent. 

He  knelt. — Cool  play'd  upon  his  cheek  the  wind, 

And  fann'd  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind. 

The  willows  waved,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept, 

The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept. 

And  all  was  peace  ; — he  felt  the  general  calm 

O'er  his  rack'd  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm  : 

When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye, 

He  saw  the  Grove, — in  fancy  saw  her  lie, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  63 

His  Margaret,  luU'd  in  Germain's*  arms  to  rest, 
And  all  the  demon  rose  within  his  breast. 
Convulsive  now,  he  clench'd  his  trembling  hand, 
Cast  his  dark  eye  onee  more  upon  the  land. 
Then,  at  one  spring  he  spurn'd  the  yielding  bank. 
And  in  the  calm  deceitful  current  sank. 

Sad,  on  the  solitude  of  night,  the  sound. 

As  in  the  stream  he  plunged,  was  heard  around  : 

Then  all  was  still— the  wave  was  rough  no  more, 

The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before  ; 

The  willows  waved,  the  moonbeams  shone  serene, 

And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 

Now,  see  upon  the  perjured  fair  one  hang 

Hemorse's  glooms  and  never-ceasing  pang. 

Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late. 

She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 

But,  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  her  breast. 

The  otiended  God  prolong'd  her  life  unbless'd 

But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  roU'd  away. 

And  near,  and  nearer  drew  the  dreadful  day  ; 

That  day,  foredoom'd  to  give  her  child  the  light, 

And  huri  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 

The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife 

The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life. — 

As  night  drew  on',  around  her  bed,  a  band 

Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand  ; 

In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time. 

Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime. 

Their  prayers  were  fruitless.--As  the  midnight  came, 

A  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  each  weary  frame. 

In  vain  they  strove  against  the  o'erwhelming  load, 

Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 

They  slept,  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 

The'blooming  Morning  oped  her  dewy  eye  ; 

Then  wakening  wide  they  sought  the  ravish 'd  bed, 

But  lo  !  the  hapless  Margaret  was  fled  ; 

And  never  more  the  weeping  train  were  doom'd 

To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  intomb'd. 

*  Germain  is  tlie  traditionary  name  of  lier  husband. 


64  COMPLETE    WORKS 

The  neighbouring  rustics  told  that  in  the  night 

They  heard  such  screams  as  froze  them  with  affright ; 

And  many  an  infant,  at  its  mothers  breast, 

Started  dismay'd,  from  its  unthinMng  rest. 

And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn, 

They  show  the  path  down  which  the  fair  was  bornCy 

By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave, 

Her  own,  and  murder'd  lover's  mutual  grave. 

Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear, 
Which  oft  in  youth  has  charm'd  my  listening  ear, 
The  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 
In  the  dear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats, 
And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power, 
Adds  a  new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 
'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  Nature  given 
To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 
With  double  joy  enthusiast  Fancy  leans 
On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 
This  sheds  a  fairy  lustre  on  the  floods. 
And  breathes  a  mellower  gloom  upon  the  woods  ; 
This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around, 
Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound  ; 
This,  and  the  deepening  glen,  the  alley  green, 
The  silver  stream,  with  sedgy  tufts  between, 
The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompass'd  leas, 
The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees, 
The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom. 
The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume  ; 
These  are  thy  charms,  the  joys  which  these  impart 
Bind  thee,  bless'd  Clifton  !  close  around  my  heart. 

Dear  Native  Grove  !  where'er  my  devious  track, 
To  thee  will  Memory  lead  the  wanderer  back. 
Whether  in  Arno's  polished  vales  I  stray, 
Or  where  '  Oswego's  swamps '  obstruct  the  day  ; 
Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide, 
The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothard's  side  ; 
Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse, 
Or  stand  entranced  with  Pyrenean  views  ; 
Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam, 
My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 
When  splendor  offers,  and  when  Fame  incites, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  65 

rU  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights, 

Reject  the  boon,  and,  wearied  with  the  change, 

Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range  ; 

Turn  to  these  scenes,  these  well-known  scenes  once  more, 

Trace  once  again  old  Trent's  romantic  shore. 

And,  tired  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 

Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 

But,  if  the  Fates  should  this  last  wish  deny, 

And  doom  me  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die  ; 

Oh  !  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 

That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing ; 

Or  that  my  corse  should,  on  some  desert  strand. 

Lie  stretch'd  beneath  the  Simoom's  blasting  hand  ; 

Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb. 

My  sprite  shall  wander  through  this  favorite  gloom, 

Ride  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove. 

Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove. 

Sit,  a  lorn  spectre  on  yon  well-known  grave, 

And  mix  its  moanings  with  the  desert  wave. 


MISCELLAJVEOUS  POEMS. 


GONDOLINE  ; 

A  BALLAD. 

The  night  it  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 

Serenely  on  the  sea. 
And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 

They  murmur'd  pleasantly. 

When  Gondoline  roam'd  along  the  shore, 

A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight ; 
Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her  cheek, 

And  turn'd  it  to  deadly  white. 
6* 


66  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 

It  fill'd  her  faint  blue  eye, 
As  oft  she  heard,  in  Fancy's  ear, 

Her  Bertrand's  dying-  sigh. 

Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 

Of  all  our  good  King's  men. 
And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 

To  fight  the  Saracen. 

And  many  a  month  had  pass'd  away, 

And  many  a  rolling  year. 
But  nothing  the  maid  from  Palestine 

Could  of  her  lover  hear. 

Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 

The  Ocean's  misty  face  ; 
Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 

She  on  the  wave  could  trace. 

And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 

In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower, 
To  guide  her  lover  to  the  land, 

Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 

But  now  despair  had  seized  her  breast, 

And  sunken  in  her  eye  ; 
'  Oh  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  will  die.' 

She  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore, 

The  Curlew  scream'd  above, 
She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart 

Much  boding  of  her  love. 

Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way. 

And  this  was  all  her  cry, 
'  Oh  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live. 

And  I  in  peace  shall  die.' 

And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift, 
All  in  the  rock's  hard  side. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  o'erspread 
The  cavern  yawning  wide. 

And  pendent  from  its  dismal  top 
The  deadly  nightshade  hung ; 

The  hemlock  and  the  aconite 

Across  the  mouth  were  flung. 

And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear, 
And  all  without  was  calm  ; 

Yet  Gondoline  entered,  her  soul  upheld 
By  some  deep-working  charm. 

And  as  she  enter'd  the  cavern  wide. 
The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale, 

And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock, 
It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 

Her  foot  it  slipped,  and  she  stood  aghast. 
She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad  ; 

Yet,  still  upheld  by  the  secret  charm, 
She  kept  upon  her  road. 

And  now  upon  her  frozen  ear 

Mysterious  sounds  arose  ; 
So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top. 

The  blustering  north  wind  blows. 

Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 

Were  heard  with  thundering  sound. 

Till  they  died  away  in  soft  decay. 
Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 

Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went, 
The  charm  yet  onward  led. 

Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 
Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 

But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw, 

It  from  a  distance  came. 
She  followed,  till  upon  her  sight. 

Burst  full  a  flood  of  flame. 


6T 


C8  COMPLETE    WORKS 

She  stood  appall 'd  ;  yet  still  the  charia 

Upheld  her  sinking  soul ; 
Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote, 

And  each  wild  eye  did  roll. 

And  such  a  sight  as  vshe  saw  there, 

No  mortal  saw  before, 
And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  sliall  see  more. 

A  burning  caldron  stood  in  the  midst, 
The  flame  was  fierce  and  high, 

And  all  the  cave  so  v/ide  and  long, 
Was  plainly  seen  thereby. 

And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 
Twelve  withered  witches  stood  : 

Their  waists  were  bound  with  living  snakes, 
And  their  hair  was  stiff  with  blood. 

Their  hands  were  gory  too  ;  and  red 
And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes  : 

And  they  were  muttering  indistinct 
Their  hellish  mysteries. 

And  suddenly  they  join'd  their  hands, 

And  uttered  a  joyous  cry, 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

And  now  they  stopp'd  ;  and  each  prepared 

To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
Since  last  the  Lady  of  the  night 

Her  waning  course  had  run. 

Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline, 
Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil. 

And  she  lean'd  fearful  forwarder. 
To  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 

The  first  arose  :  She  said  vshe'd  seen 

Rare  sport  since  the  blind  cat  mew'd, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  69 

She'd  been  to  sea  in  a  leaky  sieve, 
And  a  jovial  storm  had  brew'd. 

She  call'd  around  the  winged  winds, 

And  rais'd  a  devilish  rout ; 
And  she  laugh 'd  so  loud,  the  peals  were  heard 

Full  fifteen  leagues  about. 

She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 

Upon  the  roaring  wave, 
And  there  was  a  woman  there  who'd  been 

To  see  her  husband's  grave. 

And  she  had  got  a  child  in  her  arms, 

It  was  her  only  child, 
And  oft  its  little  infant  pranks 

Her  heavy  heart  beguil'd. 

And  there  was  too  in  that  same  bark, 

A  father  and  his  son  ; 
The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 

Was  old  and  wo-begone. 

And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong, 

And  the  bark  could  no  more  it  'bide,' 
She  said  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 

How  the  poor  devils  cried. 

The  mother  clasp 'd  her  orphan  child 

Unto  her  breast,  and  wept ; 
And  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms 

The  careless  baby  slept. 

And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  o'  the  wind, 

As  manfully  it  roar'd. 
She  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair 

And  threw  it  overboard. 

And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs, 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see  ; 
The  crew  could  scarcely  hold  her  down 

From  jumping  in  the  sea. 


70  COMPLETE    ^VORKS 

The  hag  held  a  lock  of  the  hair  in  her  liand, 

And  it  was  soft  and  fair  : 
It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child, 

To  have  had  such  lovely  hair. 

And  she  said,  the  father  in  his  arms 

He  held  his  sickly  son, 
And  his  dying  throes  they  fast  arose, 

His  pains  weie  nearly  done. 

And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy  hands. 

And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue  ; 
And  his  father  he  tore  his  thin  gray  hair, 

And  kiss'd  the  livid  hue. 

And  then  she  told,  how  she  bored  a  hole 

In  the  bark,  and  it  fiird  away  : 
And  'twas  rare  to  hear,  how  some  did  swear. 

And  some  did  vow  and  pray. 

The  man  and  woman  they  soon  were  dead. 
The  sailors  their  strength  did  urge  ; 

But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  windingsheet, 
Anu  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 

She  threw  the  infant's  hair  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high. 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  second  begun  :  She  said  she  had  done 
The  task  that  Queen  Hecat'  had  set  her. 

And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil. 
Had  never  accomplish 'd  a  better. 

She  said,  there  was  an  aged  woman. 

And  she  had  a  daughter  fair, 
Whose  evil  habits  fillVl  her  heart 

With  misery  and  care. 

The  daughter  had  a  paraniour, 
A  wicked  man  was  he, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  71 

And  oft  the  woman  him  against 
Did  murmur  grievously. 

And  the  hag  had  work'd  the  daughter  up 

To  murder  her  old  mother, 
That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  her  goods, 

And  wanton  with  her  lover. 

And  one  night  as  the  old  woman 

Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed, 
And  pondering  solely  on  the  life 

Her  wicked  daughter  led, 

She  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor. 

And  she  raised  her  pallid  head. 
And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with  a  knife, 

Approaching  to  her  bed. 

And  said.  My  child,  I'm  very  ill 

I  have  not  long  to  live. 
Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 

Thy  sins  I  may  forgive. 

And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek. 
And  she  lifted  the  sharp  bright  knife. 

And  the  mother  saw  her  fell  intent. 
And  hard  she  begg'd  for  life. 

But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail. 

And  she  scream 'd  aloud  with  fear  ; 
But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  screams 

Could  reach  no  human  ear. 

And  though  that  she  was  sick,  and  old, 

She  struggled  hard,  and  fought ; 
The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 

Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat. 

And  the  hag  she  held  the  fingers  up. 

The  skin  was  mangled  sore  ; 
And  they  all  agreed  a  nobler  deed 

Was  never  done  before. 


72  COMPLETE    WORKS 

And  she  threw  the  fingers  in  the  fire, 
The  red  flame  flamed  high. 

And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 
They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  third  arose  :  She  said  she'd  been 

To  Holy  Palestine  ; 
And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  day, 

Than  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 

Now  GondoHne,  with  fearful  steps, 
Drew  nearer  to  the  flame. 

For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 
Her  hapless  lover's  name. 

The  hag  related  then  the  sports 

Of  that  eventful  day. 
When  on  the  v/ell-contested  field 

Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 

She  said,  that  she  in  human  gore 
Above  the  knees  did  wade. 

And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 
The  tricks  she  there  had  play'd. 

There  was  a  gallant-featured  youth, 

Who  like  a  hero  fought ; 
He  kiss'd  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist, 

And  every  danger  sought. 

And  in  a  vassal's  garb  disguised 
Unto  the  knight  she  sues, 

And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes, 
And  brings  unwelcome  news. 

That  three  days  ere  she  had  embark 'd, 
His  love  had  given  her  hand 

Unto  a  Avealthy  Thane  : — and  thought 
Him  dead  in  holy  land. 

And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 
W^hen  this  her  tale  she  told. 


OF    H.    K,    WHITE.  73 

It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood 
Within  his  iieart  ran  cold. 

Then  fierce  he  spurr'd  his  warrior  steed, 

And  sought  the  battle's  bed  ; 
And  soon  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds, 

He  on  the  cold  turf  bled. 

And  from  his  smoking  corse  she  tore 

His  liead,  half  clove  in  two  : 
She  ceased,  and  from  beneath  her  garb 

The  bloody  trophy  drew. 

The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks, 

The  mouth  it  ghastly  grinn'd. 
And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow, 

The  scalp  was  nearly  skinn'd. 

'Twas  Bertrand's  Head  ! !     With  a  terrible  scream, 

The  maiden  gave  a  spring, 
And  from  her  fearful  hiding  place 

She  fell  into  the  ring. 

The  lights  they  fled — the  caldron  sunk, 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 

Resounding  through  the  gloom. 

Insensible  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  hellish  ground, 
And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  heard 

At  intervals  around. 

She  woke — she  half  arose, — and  wild, 

She  cast  a  horrid  glare. 
The  sounds  had  ceased,  the  lights  had  fled, 

And  all  was  stillness  there. 

And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock, 

The  moon  it  sweetly  shone, 
And  show'd  a  river  in  the  cave 

Which  dismally  did  moan. 
7 


74  COMPLETE    WORKS 

The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep 
As  it  rush'd  the  rocks  between, 

It  offer'd  well,  for  madness  fired 
The  breast  of  Gondoline. 

She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moan'd 
With  its  accustom'd  sound. 

And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  loud 
Again  rebellow'd  round. 

The  maid  was  seen  no  more. — But  oft 
Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 

M  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour, 
Along  the  ocean's  side. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  OxN  A  SURVEY  OF  THE  HEAVENS, 

[n  the  Morniug  before  Daybreak. 

Ye  many  twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  hold 

Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 

Of  night's  dominions  !— Planets,  and  central  orbs 

Of  other  systems  :— big  as  the  burning  sun 

Which  lights  this  nether  globe,— yet  to  our  eye 

Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp  !— To  you  I  raise 

My  lowly  orisons,  while,  all  bewilder'd. 

My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts  ; 

Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 

Warp'd  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold. 

And  sagely  comprehend.     Thence  higher  soaring, 

Through  ye,  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Him, 

The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wondrous  maze. 

The  great  Creator  !  Him  !  who  now  sublime, 

Wrapt  in  the  solitary  amplitude 

Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres 

Sits  on  his  silent  throne,  and  meditates. 

The  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  heaven. 
Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  75 

Repeating  loud,  '  The  Lord  our  God  is  great,' 
In  varied  harmonies. — The  glorious  sounds 
Roll  o'er  the  air  serene— The  iEolian  spheres, 
Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries. 
Catch  the  full  note,  and  cry,  '  The  Lord  is  great,' 
Responding  to  the  Seraphim. — O'er  all. 
From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 
Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne, 
Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oh  !  'tis  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 

In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear. 

And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.     It  bids  me  smile 

On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares. 

And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 

Oh  !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height. 

What  even  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 

Of  these  stupendous  worlds  !     Almighty  God  ! 

Thou,  the  dread  author  of  these  wondrous  works  ! 

Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 

One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ? — Thou  canst ; 

For  Thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 

And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 

Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud. 

The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour. 

Oh  !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime. 

How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys. 

The  gauds,  and  honors  of  the  world  appear ! 

How  vain  ambition  !     Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 

Outwatch'd  the  slow-paced  night  ? — Why  on  the  page. 

The  schoolman's  labor'd  page,  have  I  employ'd 

The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest. 

And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ^ 

Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 

The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory 

Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 

Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow. 

Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye. 

Or  paint  new  colors  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 

Say,  foolish  one — can  that  unbodied  fame. 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness, 


76  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Say,  can  it  soothe  the  skimbers  of  the  grave  ? 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas  !  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires  ! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits  !     Eternal  God  ! 
Guide  Thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth, 
And  oil !  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth, 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling. — All  but  this  is  folly, 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 


LINES 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  A  LOVER  AT  THE  GRAVE 
OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Occasioned  by  a  Situation  in  a  Romance. 

Mary,  the  moon  is  sleeping  on  thy  grave. 

And  on  the  turf  thy  lover  sad  is  kneeling. 

The  big  tear  in  his  eye. — Mary,  awake, 

From  thy  dark  house  arise,  and  bless  his  sight 

On  the  pale  moonbeam  gliding.     Soft,  and  low, 

Pour  on  the  silver  ear  of  night  thy  tale, 

Thy  whisper'd  tale  of  comfort  and  of  love. 

To  soothe  thy  Edward's  lorn,  distracted  soul. 

And  cheer  his  breaking  heart. — Come,  as  thou  didst, 

When  o'er  the  barren  moors  the  night  wind  howl'd, 

And  the  deep  thunders  shook  the  ebon  throne 

Of  the  startled  night. — 0  !  then,  as  lone  reclining, 

I  listen'd  sadly  to  the  dismal  storm, 

Thou  on  the  lambent  lightnings  wild  careering 

Didst  strike  my  moody  eye  ; — dead  pale  thou  wert, 

Yet  passing  lovely. — Thou  didst  smile  upon  me. 

And  oh  !  thy  voice  it  rose  so  musical. 

Between  the  hollow  pauses  of  the  storm, 

That  at  the  sound  the  winds  forgot  to  rave, 

And  the  stern  demon  of  the  tempest,  charm 'd, 

Sunk  on  his  rocking  throne  to  still  repose, 

Lock'd  in  the  arms  of  silence. 

Spirit  of  her  ! 
My  only  love  ! — 0  !  now  again  arise, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


11 


And  let  once  more  thine  aery  accents  fall 

Soft  on  my  listening  ear.     The  night  is  calm, 

The  gloomy  willows  wave  in  sinking  cadence 

With  the  stream  that  sweeps  below.     Divinely  swelling 

On  the  still  air,  the  distant  waterfall 

Mingles  its  melody  ; — and,  high  above, 

The  pensive  empress  of  the  solemn  night, 

Fitful,  emerging  from  the  rapid  clouds> 

Shows  her  chaste  face  in  the  meridian  sky. 

No  wicked  elves  upon  the  Warlock-knoll 

Dare  now  assemble  at  their  mystic  revels  ; 

It  is  a  night,  when  from  their  primrose  beds, 

The  gentle  ghosts  of  injured  innocents 

Are  known  to  rise,  and  wander  on  the  breeze, 

Or  take  their  stand  by  the  oppressor's  couch, 

And  strike  grim  terror  to  his  guilty  soul. 

The  spirit  of  my  love  might  now  awake. 

And  hold  its  custom'd  converse. 

Mary,  lo  ! 
Thy  Edward  kneels  upon  thy  verdant  grave, 
And  calls  upon  thy  name. — The  breeze  that  blows 
On  his  wan  cheek  will  soon  sweep  over  him 
In  solemn  music,  a  funeral  dirge. 
Wild  and  most  sorrowful. — His  cheek  is  pale, 
The  worm  that  play'd  upon  thy  youthful  bloom. 
It  canker'd  green  on  his. — Now  lost  he  stands. 
The  ghost  of  what  he  was,  and  the  cold  dew 
Which  bathes  his  aching  temples  gives  sure  omen 
Of  speedy  dissolution.— Mary,  soon 
Thy  lov'd  will  lay  his  pallid  cheek  to  thine, 
And  sweetly  will  he  sleep  with  thee  in  death. 


MY  STUDY. 

A  LETTER  IN  HUDIBRASTIC  VERSE. 

You  bid  me,  Ned,  describe  the  place 
Where  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race. 
Pursue  my  studies  con  amove, 
And  wanton  with  the  muse  in  glory. 

7* 


78  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight, 
Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 
A  closet,  just  six  feet  by  four, 
With  white-wash'd  walls  and  plaster  floor, 
So  noble  large,  'tis  scarcely  able 
To  admit  a  single  chair  and  table  : 
-     And  (lest  the  muse  should  die  with  cold) 
A  smoky  grate  my  fire  to  hold  : 
So  wondrous  small,  'twould  much  it  pose 
To  melt  the  ice-drop  on  one's  nose  ; 
And  yet  so  big,  it  covers  o'er 
Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 

A  window  vainly  stuff'd  about. 
To  keep  November's  breezes  out, 
So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim. 
That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame. 

My  furniture  I  sure  may  crack — 

A  broken  chair  without  a  back  ; 

A  table  wanting  just  two  legs. 

One  end  sustain'd  by  wooden  pegs  ; 

A  desk — of  that  I  am  not  fervent, 

The  work  of,  sir,  your  humble  servant , 

(Who,  though  I  say't,  am  no  such  fumbler ;) 

A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler, 

From  which,  my  night-parch 'd  throat  I  lave, 

liuxurious,  with  the  limpid  wave. 

A  chest  of  drawers,  in  antique  sections, 

And  saw'd  by  me  in  all  directions  ; 

So  small,  sir,  that  whoever  views  'em 

Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  could  use  'em. 

To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 

Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 

A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls, 

Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobbler's  awls, 

And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves, 

Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves  : 

I  think,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  dog. 

You'll  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 

But  stay, — I  nearly  had  left  out 

My  bellows  destitute  of  snout  ; 

And  on  the  walls,— Good  Heavens  !  why  there 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  79 

I've  such  a  load  of  precious  ware, 

Of  heads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals, 

And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals  ; 

(For  I  was  once  a-building  music. 

Though  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick  ;) 

And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 

All  out  of  one  primordial  root ; 

That  you,  at  such  a  sight,  would  swear 

Confusion's  self  had  settled  there. 

There  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 

A  Cicero  without  an  ear, 

A  neck,  on  which,  by  logic  good, 

I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood  ; 

But  who  it  was  the  able  master 

Had  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster, 

Whether  'twas  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Burn, 

I  never  yet  could  justly  learn  : 

But  knowing  well,  that  any  head 

Is  made  to  answer  for  the  dead, 

(And  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame, 

And  after  pitch  upon  a  name, 

Nor  think  it  aught  of  a  misnomer 

To  christen  Chaucer's  busto  Homer, 

Because  they  both  have  beards,  which,  you  know, 

Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan,  and  Juno,) 

For  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 

But  Neck  might  answer  just  as  well, 

So  perch'd  it  up,  all  in  a  row 

With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 

Then  all  around  in  just  degree, 
A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see, 
Of  mighty  men,  and  eke  of  women 
Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 

With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  round, 

I  call  my  garret  classic  ground. 

For  though  confined,  'twill  well  contain 

The  ideaf  flights  of  Madam  Brain. 

No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined, 

Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind  ! 

Thus,  though  my  heart  may  seem  so  small, 


80  COMPLETE    WORKS 

I've  friends,  and  'twill  contain  them  all  ; 
And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 
That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold, 
No  more  may  Heaven  her  blessings  give, 
I  shall  not  then  be  fit  to  live. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  question'd  Winter's  sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved  ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


SONNETS. 


SONNET  I. 

To  the  River  Trent.    Written  on  Recovery  from  Sickness. 

Once  more,  0  Trent !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale. 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large, 
Woos  to  his  wan-worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale. 
0  !  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat  ! 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail, 

How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float ! 
It  was  on  this  that  many  a  sleepless  night. 

As,  lone,  he  watch'd  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  affright, 
The  owl's  dull  wing  and  melancholy  scream, 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this  his  sole  desire, 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir. 


SONNET  II. 

Give  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild. 

Where,  far  fro"m  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days, 
And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled, 

May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 
While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat, 

List  to  the  mountain-torrent's  distant  noise, 
Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 

I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys  ; 
But  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 

Shall  think  niy  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more  ; 
And  when,  Avith  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire. 


COMPLETE    WORKS 


I'll  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 
And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 


SONNET  III  * 

Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  Female  Lunatic  to  a  Lady. 

Lady,  thou  weepest  for  the  Maniac's  wo. 

And  thou  art  fair,  and  thou,  like  me,  art  young  ; 
Oh  !  may  thy  bosom  never,  never  know 

The  pangs  with  which  my  wretched  heart  is  wrung. 
I  had  a  mother  once — a  brother  too — 

(Beneath  yon  yew  my  father  rests  his  head  :) 
I  had  a  lover  once, — and  kind,  and  true. 

Bat  mother,  brother,  lover,  all  are  fled  ! 
Yet,  whence  the  tear  which  dims  thy  lovely  eye  ? 

0  !  gentle  lady — not  for  me  thus  weep. 
The  green  sod  soon  upon  my  breast  will  lie, 

And  soft  and  sound  will  be  my  peaceful  sleep, 
Go  thou  and  pluck  the  roses  while  they  bloom — 

My  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 


SONNET  IV. 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  Poet  Derraody,  in  a  Storm,  while  on  board 
a  Ship  in  his  Majesty's  Service. 

Lo  !  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuous  clouds 
Successive  fly,  and  the  loud-piping  wind 

Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds, 
AVhile  the  pale  pilot,  o'er  the  helm  reclined 

Lists  to  the  changeful  storm  :  and  as  he  plies 
His  wakeful  task,  he  oft  bethinks  him  sad, 
Of  wife  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad. 

And  the  half-strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes  ; 

I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn, 

View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep, 

*  This  Quatorzain  had  its  rise  from  an  elegant  Sonnet,  '  occasioned  by  seeing  a 
young  Female  Lunatic,'  written  by  Mrs.  Lofft,  and  published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  83 

Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep, 
For  not  for  me  shall  wife  or  children  mourn, 
And  the  wild  winds  will  ring  my  funeral  knell 
Sweetly,  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 


SONNET  V. 

THE  WINTER  TRAVELLER. 

God  help  thee.  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far  ; 
The  wind  is  bitter  keen, — the  snow  o'rlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 
And  darkness  will  involve  thee. — No  kind  star      - 
To-night  will  guide  thee.  Traveller, — and  the  war 
Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break. 
And  in  thy  agonizing  ear  the  shriek 
Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car. 
Will  often  ring  appalling — I  portend 

A  dismal  night — and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee  will  fill  my  head. 
And  him  who  rides  where  winds  and  waves  contend. 
And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 
His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 


SONNET  VI. 

BY  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

This  Sonnet  was  addressed  to  the  Author  of  this  Volume,  and  waa  occasioned  by  several 
little  Uuatorzains,  misnomered  i?nnnets,  wliich  he  nublished  in  the  Monthly  Mirror. 
He  beg3  leave  to  return  his  thanks  to  the  nuich  respected  writer,  for  the  permission  sc 
politely  pranted  to  insert  it  here,  and  for  the  good  opinion  he  has  been  pleased  to  ex- 
press of  his  productions. 

Ye,  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays, 
'  Severest  of  those  orders  which  belong, 
Distinct  and  separate,  to  Delphic  song, ' 

Why  shun  the  Sonnet's  undulating  maze  ? 

And  why  its  name,  boast  of  Petrarch ian  days. 

Assume,  its  rules  disown'd  ?  whom  from  the  throng 

The  muse  selects,  their  ear  the  charm  obeys 
Of  its  full  harmony  : — they  fear  to  wrong 


84  COMPLETE    WORKS 

The  Somietj  by  adorning  with  a  name 

Of  that  distinguish'd  import,  lays,  though  sweet, 
Yet  not  in  magic  texture  taught  to  meet 
Of  that  so  varied  and  peculiar  frame. 
0  think  !  to  vindicate  its  genuine  praise 

Those  it  beseems,  whose  Lyre  a  favoring  impulse  sways. 


SONNET  VII. 

Recantatory,  in  reply  to  the  foregoing  elegant  Admonition. 

Let  the  sublimer  muse,  who,  wrapt  in  night, 
Rides  on  the  raven  pennons  of  the  storm, 
Or  o'er  the  field,  with  purple  havoc  warm, 
Lashes  her  steeds,  and  sings  along  the  fight, 
Let  her,  whom  more  ferocious  strains  delight, 
Disdain  the  plaintive  Sonnet's  little  form, 
And  scorn  to  its  wild  cadence  to  conform 
The  impetuous  tenor  of  her  hardy  flight. 
But  me,  far  lowest  of  the  sylvan  train. 

Who  wake  the  wood-nymphs  from  the  forest  shade 
With  wildest  song  ; — Me,  much  behooves  thy  aid 
Of  mingled  melody,  to  grace  my  strain. 
And  give  it  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 
Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  thy  frequent  close. 


SONNET  VIII. 

On  bearing  the  Sounds  of  an  iEoIian  Harp. 

So  ravishingly  soft  upon  the  tide 
Of  the  infuriate  gust,  it  did  career. 
It  might  have  sooth 'd  its  rugged  charioteer, 

And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr  ; — then  it  died, 

Melting  in  melody  ; — and  I  descried. 

Borne  to  some  wizard  stream,  the  form  appear 
Of  driiid  sage,  who  on  the  far-oft'  ear 

Pour'd  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied  : 

Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell. 
Lost  in  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  85 

By  unseen  beings  sung ;  or  are  these  sounds 
Such,  as  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  swell 
By  startled  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath, 
Keeping  his  night-watch  sad,  portending  death  ? 


SONNET  IX. 

What  art  thou.  Mighty  One  !  and  where  thy  seat  ? 
Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands, 
And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 

The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet, 

Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind. 
Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead  noon, 
Or  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  IMonsoon, 

Disturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 

In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 
Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 

Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Rears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 

Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 

Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 


A  BALLAD. 

Be  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  ye  bitter  winds, 

Ye  pelting  rains  a  little  rest : 
Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts. 

That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breast. 

Oh  !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love. 
To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid ; 

Oh  !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love. 
To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betray'd. 

When  exiled  from  my  native  home, 
He  should  have  wiped  the  bitter  tear ; 

Nor  left  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 
A  heart-sick  weary  wanderer  here. 
8 


86  COMPLETE    WORKS 

My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 
The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep  : 

Ah,  little  knows  the  hapless  babe 
What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weep  ! 

Now  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 
I  cannot  bear  thy  sobs  to  see, 

Harsh  is  thy  father,  little  one, 
And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 

Oh,  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave. 
And  winds  were  piping  o'er  me  loud, 

And  thou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe. 
Were  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud  ! 


THE  LULLABY 

OF  A  FEMALE  CONVICT   TO  HER   CHILD,  THE   NIGHT  PREVIOUS   TO 

EXECUTION 

Sleep,  baby  mine,*  enkerchieft  on  my  bosom. 
Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast ; 

Sleep,  baby  mine,  not  long  thou'lt  have  a  mother 
To  lull  thee  fondly  in  her  arms  to  rest. 

Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining. 
Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled  ; 

Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning, 
And  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 

Poor  wayward  wretch  !  and  who  will  heed  thy  weeping, 
When  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou'lt  be  : 

Who  then  will  soothe  thee,  when  thy  mother's  sleeping 
In  her  low  grave  of  shame  and  infamy  ! 

Sleep,  baby  mine — To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee. 

And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest : 
Sleep  these  last  moments,  ere  the  laws  bereave  thee, 

For  never  more  thou'lt  press  a  mother's  breast. 

*  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  a  Poem  beginning,  '  Sleep,  Baby  mine.' 


POEMS, 

WRITTEN  DUEING,  OR  SHORTLY  AFTER,  THE  PUBLICATION  OF 

CLIFTON  GROVE. 


ODE, 

ADDRESSED  TO  H.  FUSELI,  ESQ.  R.  A. 

Oii  seeing  Engravings  from  his  Designs. 

Mighty  magician  !  who  on  Torneo's  brow, 

When  sullen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night, 
Art  wont  to  sit  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light, 

That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaque  below  ; 

And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 
From  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep, 

Wliile  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song  : 
Or  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
Serenely  chant  the  orbs  on  high. 
Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance, 
And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
(While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore,) 
And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze, 
That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas  ; 
And  often  bears  with  sudden  swell 
The  shipwreck'd  sailor's  funeral  knell. 
By  the  spirits  sung,  who  keep 
Their  night-watch  on  the  treacherous  deep, 
And  guide  the  wakeful  helms-man's  eye 
To  Helice  in  northern  sky  : 
And  there  upon  the  rock  inchned 
With  mighty  visions  fill'st  the  mind, 
Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 


88  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Hiin*  who  grasp'd  the  gates  of  Hell, 
And  burt^ting  Pluto's  dark  domain, 
Held  to  the  day  the  terrors  of  his  reign. 

Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe, 

Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
Whose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep, 

Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law ; 
Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit, 
Wlio  sliall  now  thy  wand  inherit, 
From  him  f  thy  darling  child  who  best 
Thy  shuddering  images  express'd  ? 
Sullen  of  soul,  and  stern  and  proud. 
His  gloomy  spirit  spurn'd  the  crowd, 
And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 

In  the  dark  mansion  of  the  silent  dead. 

Mighty  magician  !  long  thy  wand  has  lain 

Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep  ; 

And  oh  !  forever  must  its  efforts  sleep. 
May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain  .'' 

Oh  yes,  'tis  his  ! — Thy  other  son  ; 

He  throws  thy  dark-wrought  tunic  on, 

Fuesslin  waves  thy  wand, — again  they  rise. 

Again  thy  wildering  forms  salute  our  ravish 'd  eyes. 
Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  steep 

Where  round  his  head  the  volley'd  lightnings  flung, 

And  tlie  loud  winds  that  round  his  pillow  rung. 
Wooed  the  stern  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleep. 

Or  on  the  highest  top  of  Teneriffe 
Seated  the  fearless  boy,  and  bade  him  look 

Where  far  below  the  weather-beaten  skiff 
On  the  gulf  bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 
Thou  mnrk'dst  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 

The  death-sob,  and,  disdaining  rest. 
Thou  saw'st  how  danger  fired  his  breast, 
And  in  his  young  hand  couch'd  the  visionary  spear. 

Then,  Superstition,  at  thy  call, 

Slie  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 

And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight 

The  savage  feast  and  spectred  fight ; 

*  Dante.  \  IWd. 


^  OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

And  summon'd  from  his  mountain  tomb 

The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom, 

His  fabled  Runic  rhymes  to  sing, 

While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapp'd  his  wing  ; 

Thou  show'dst  the  trains  the  shepherd  sees, 

Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam. 

Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream ; 

Lastly  her  storied  hand  she  waves. 

And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves  ; 

There  milder  fables,  lovelier  themes, 

Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams. 

There  Pity's  lute  arrests  his  ear, 

And  draws  the  half-reluctant  tear  ; 

And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 

Along  the  embowering  moonlight  groves. 

And  as  from  many  a  cavern'd  dell 

The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell. 

He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs  ; 

And  as  upon  the  turf  he  lies, 

Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night. 

He  sees  below  the  ghding  sprite, 

And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 

Aerial  music  warbling  round. 

Taste  lastly  comes  and  smooths  the  whole. 
And  breathes  her  polish  o'er  his  soul; 
Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chasten'd  heat. 
The  wonderous  work  is  now  complete. 

The  Poet  dreams  :— The  shadow  flies. 

And  fainting  fast  its  image  dies. 

But  lo  !  the  Painter's  magic  force 

Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course  ; 

It  lives — it  lives — the  canvass  glows, 

And  tenfold  vigor  o'er  it  flows. 
The  Bard  beholds  the  work  achieved, 

And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise. 

Sublime  before  his  wondering  eyes. 
Starts  at  the  im.age  his  own  mind  conceived. 

8* 


89 


90  COMPLETE    WORKS 

ODE, 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  EARL  OF  CARLISLE,  K.  G. 

Retired,  remote  from  hinnan  noise, 

A  humble  Poet  dwelt  serene  \ 
His  lot  was  lowly,  yet  his  joys 

Were  manifold,  I  ween. 
He  laid  him  by  the  brawling  brook 

At  eventide  to  rmninate. 

He  watch 'd  the  swallow  skimming  round, 
And  mused,  in  reverie  profound, 
On  wayward  man's  unhappy  state. 
And  ponder'd  much,  and  paused  on  deeds  of  ancient  date. 

11.  1. 

'  Oh,  'twas  not  always  thus,'  he  cried, 
'  There  was  a  time,  when  Genius  claimed 

Respect  from  even  towering  Pride, 
Nor  hung  her  head  ashamed  : 

But  now  to  Wealth  alone  we  bow. 
The  titled  and  the  rich  alone 

Are  honor'd,  while  meek  Merit  pines. 

On  Penury's  wretched  couch  reclines, 
Unheeded  in  his  dying  moan. 
As  overwhelm'd  with  want  and  v/o,  he  sinks  unknown. 

III.    1. 

'  Yet  was  the  muse  not  always  seen 
In  Poverty's  dejected  mien, 
Not  always  did  repining  rue, 
And  misery  her  steps  pursue. 
Time  was,  when  nobles  thought  their  titles  graced, 
By  the  sweet  honors  of  poetic  bays. 
When  Sidney  sung  his  melting  song, 
When  Sheffield  joined  the  harmonious  throng, 
And  Lyttleton  attuned  to  love  his  lays. 
Those  days  are  gone — alas,  forever  gone  ! 

No  more  our  nobles  love  to  grace 
Their  brows  with  anademes,  by  genius  won, 
But  arrogantly  deem  the  muse  as  base ; 
How  different  thought  the  sires  of  this  degenerate  race  ( * 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  91 

I.  2. 

Thus  sang"  the  minstrel : — still  at  eve 

The  upland's  woody  shades  among 
In  broken  measures  did  he  grieve, 

With  solitary  song. 
And  Siill  liis  shame  was  aye  the  same, 

Neglect  had  stung  him  to  the  core  ; 
And  he  with  pensive  joy  did  love 
To  seek  the  still  congenial  grove, 

And  muse  on  all  his  sorrows  o'er. 
And  vow  that  he  would  join  the  abjured  world  no  more. 

II.  2. 

But  human  vows,  how  frail  they  be  ! 

Fame  brought  Carlisle  unto  his  view, 
And  all  amazed,  he  thought  to  see 
The  Augustan  age  anew. 
Fill'd  with  wild  rapture,  up  he  rose, 
No  more  he  ponders  on  the  woes. 
Which  erst  he  felt  that  forward  goes, 
Regrets  he'd  sunk  in  impotence. 
And  hails  the  ideal  day  of  virtuous  eminence. 

III.  2. 

Ah  !  silly  man,  yet  smarting  sore, 
With  ills  which  in  the  world  he  bore, 
Again  on  futile  hope  to  rest. 
An  unsubstantial  prop  at  best. 
And  not  to  know  one  swallow  makes  no  summer ! 
Ah  !  soon  he'll  find  the  brilliant  gleam, 
Which  flashed  across  the  hemisphere. 
Illumining  the  darkness  there. 

Was  but  a  single  solitary  beam. 
While  all  around  remained  in  customed  night. 

Still  leaden  Ignorance  reigns  serene, 
In  the  false  court's  delusive  height. 
And  only  one  Carlisle  is  seen, 
To  illume  the  heavy  gloom  with  pure  and  steady  light. 


92  COMPLETE    WORKS 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  SUMMER'S  EVE. 

Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day 

The  burning'  wheels  have  urged  their  way. 

And  eve  along  the  western  skies 

Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes. 

Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 

Creeking  comes  the  empty  wain, 

And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits, 

Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits  ; 

And  oft  with  his  accustom 'd  call, 

Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 

The  barn  is  still,  the  master's  gone, 

And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 

While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall. 

Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 

Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 

He  has  penn'd  the  sheep-cote  fast, 

For  'twas  but  two  nights  before, 

A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor  : 

His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, 

Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries. 

With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try, 

If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 

The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 

And  supper  messes  in  the  cans  ; 

In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheel'd. 

And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-fi6ld  ; 

The  horses  are  all  bedded  up. 

And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup, 

The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set. 

The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet. 

And  Bess  has  slink'd  away  to  talk 

With  Roger  in  the  holly-walk. 

Now,  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess  ; 
And  little  Tom  and  roguish  Kate, 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings. 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


93 


How  madam  did  the  squire  refuse  ; 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrained  for  rent. 
Thus  do  they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  moon  is  mounted  high, 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Had  reel'd— then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid— while  master  goes  throughout, 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out, 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear. 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear  ; 
Then  boih  to  bed  together  creep. 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 


TO  CONTEMPLATION. 

Come,  pensive  sage,  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
In  some  retired  Lapponian  cell, 
Where,  far  from  noise  and  riot  rude, 
Resides  sequester'd  Solitude. 
Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole, 
And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes. 
The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 

I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill. 
Where,  with  printless  footsteps  still 
The  morning  in  her  buskin  gray. 
Springs  upon  her  eastern  way ; 
While  the  frolic  zephyrs  stir, 
Playing  with  the  gossamer. 
And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne. 
Shake  the  dew-drops  from  the  thorn. 
There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pass, 
Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 
We  will  startle  from  her  nest 
The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast, 
And  hear  the  floating  clouds  among 
Her  gale-transported  matin  song, 


94  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Or  on  the  upland  stile  embower'd, 

With  fragrant  hawthorn  snowy  flower'd, 

Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still 

To  the  herdsman's  oaten  quill, 

Wafted  from  the  plain  below  ; 

Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low  ; 

Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove, 

Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love. 

Or  when  the  noontide  heats  oppress, 

We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 

Where,  in  th'  embower'd  translucent  stream, 

The  cattle  shun  the  sultry  beam. 

And  o'er  us  on  the  marge  reclined, 

The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind, 

While  echo,  from  her  ancient  oak, 

Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke  ; 

Or  the  little  peasant's  song. 

Wandering  lone  the  glens  among. 

His  artless  lip  with  berries  dyed, 

And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried. 

But  oh  !  when  evening's  virgin  queen 

Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene, 

And  mingling  whispers  rising  near, 

Steal  on  the  still  reposing  ear  : 

While  distant  brooks  decaying  round. 

Augment  the  mix'd  dissolving  sound, 

And  the  zephyr  flitting  by. 

Whispers  mystic  harmony. 

We  will  seek  the  woody  lane. 

By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain, 

Where  the  weary  rustic  nigh. 

Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody,. 

And  the  croaking  wicket  oft 

Shall  echo  from  the  neighbouring  croft  ; 

And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lone. 

With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrown, 

We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore 

Till  the  full  soul  brimming  o'er, 

Shall  in  our  upturn 'd  eyes  appear, 

Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear. 

Or  else,  serenely  silent,  set 

By  the  brawling  rivulet, 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  95 

Wliich  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast, 
Bears  the  old  mossy  arch  impress'd, 
That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass 
Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass, 
The  wood-nymph's  lone  secure  retreat, 
Unpress'd  by  fawn  or  sylvan's  feet, 
We'll  watch  in  eve's  ethereal  braid, 
The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade ; 
Or  catch,  faint  twinkling  from  afar. 
The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star. 
Fair  Vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light, 
That  heralds  in  imperial  night  ; 
Meanwhile,  upon  our  wandering  ear. 
Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear. 
The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute, 
Invokmg  soft  the  sober  suit 
Of  dimmest  darkness — fitting  well 
With  love,  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell, 
(So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone 
Wake  slumbering  Chaos  on  his  throne.) 
And  haply  then,  with  sudden  swell,       ^ 
Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew  bell. 
While  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower, 
The  hootinar  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
Her  melancholy  song,  and  scare 
Dull  Silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car. 
Black-suited  Night  drives  on  from  far. 
And  Cynthia,  'merging  from  her  rear, 
Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear. 
And  summons  to  her  silent  call, 
Sweeping,  in  their  airy  pall. 
The  unshrived  ghosts,  in  fairy  trance. 
To  join  her  moonshine  morrice-dance  ; 
While  around  the  mystic  ring 
The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring. 
Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly. 
Wrapt  in  mists,  along  the  sky. 
And  oft  are  by  the  shepherd  seen. 
In  his  lone  night-watch  on  the  green. 

Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet 
To  the  low  abbey's  still  retreat,  ■ 


96  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Embower 'd  in  the  distant  glen, 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men, 

Where,  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb, 

The  glow-worm's  hght  may  gild  the  gloom, 

And  show  to  Fancy's  saddest  eye, 

Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 

And  oh,  as  through  the  mouldering  arch, 

With  ivy  fill'd  and  weeping  larch. 

The  night-gale  whispers  sadly  clear, 

Speaking  drear  things  to  Fancy's  ear. 

We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade 

Of  some  deep-wailing,  ruin'd  maid — 

Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spenser  down. 

To  tell  of  wo  and  Fortune's  frown  ; 

And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope 

Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 

Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied. 

To  linger  by  the  forest's  side  ; 

Or  in  the  meadow,  or  the  wood. 

Or  by  the  lone,  romantic  flood  ; 

Let  us  in  the  busy  town. 

When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown, 

Far  from  drowsy  pillows  flee. 

And  turn  the  church's  massy  key  ; 

Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass 

The  moon's  faint  beams  obscurely  pass ; 

And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall. 

Her  faint,  ambiguous  shadows  fall  ; 

Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail, 

Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle. 

As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet. 

Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet ; 

While  from  the  tombs,  with  confessed  breath, 

Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 

If  thou,  mild  sage,  wilt  condescend, 

Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  attend. 

To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  burn 

By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn. 

As  o'er  tlie  scroll  of  Time  I  pore. 

And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore, 

Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  all 

That  Plato  could  to  memory  call. 

And  scan  the  formless  views  of  things, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  97 


Or  with  old  Egypt's  fetter'd  kings, 
Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine 
In  night's  high  philosophic  mine  ; 
And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 
The  honors  of  undying  song. 


ODE 

TO  THE   GENIUS  OF  ROMANCE. 

Oh  !  thou  who,  in  r;iy  early  youth, 
When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 
Were  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet, 
To  some  retired,  deep-fabled  seat. 
Where,  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide. 
The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide ; 
Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 
In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade, 
Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold. 
Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  hold  ; 
And  there,  as  musing  deep  I  lay. 
Would  steal  my  little  soul  away, 
And  all  thy  pictu  -es  represent, 
Of  siege  and  solemn  tournament ; 
Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene. 
Where,  clad  in  greaves  and  gaberdine. 
The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry 
Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee  , 
And  bore  the  high-born  dame  away, 
Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey  ; 
Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 
Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale, 
Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side, 
(Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  dyed,) 
Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridor. 
On  stormy  nights  was  heard  to  roar. 
By  old  domestic,  waken'd  wide 
By  the  angry  winds  that  chide  ; 
Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell, 
Of  Greensleeve,  or  of  Blue  Beard  fell. 


98  COMPLETE    WORKS 


THE   SAVOYARD'S   RETURN. 


I. 

Oh  !  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot, 

My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  home  ! 
Oh  f  welcome  is  yon  little  cot. 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam  ! 
Oh  !  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land  ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband. 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

II. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 

It  lured  me  from  my  native  land ; 
It  bade  me  rove — my  sole  support 

My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock. 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights  ; 
The  plain  adorn 'd  with  many  a  flock. 

And,  oh  !  a  thousand  more  delights. 
That  grace  yon  dear  beloved  retreat, 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet. 

III. 

Now  safe  returned,  with  wandering  tired, 

No  more  my  little  home  I'll  leave  ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  what  I've  seen 

Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
Oh  !  I  have  wander'd  far  and  wide. 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land  ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried. 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband  ; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail, 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


LINES 


99 


Written  impromptu,  on  reading  the  followino  passage  in  Mr.  Capel  Lofft's  beautiful  and 
interestine  Preface  to  Nathaniel  Bloomfiold''^  Toems,  just  publisned.— '  It  has  a  mixture 
of  the  sportive,  which  deepens  the  impressi.m  of  its  melancholy  close.  I  could  have 
wished  as  I  have  said  in  a  short  note,  the  conclusion  had  been  othervi'ise.  Ihe  sours 
of  life  less  offend  my  taste  than  its  sweets  delight  it.' 

Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  '  Be  still ! ' 
Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will ; 
Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  Despair, 
But  tell  not  Misery's  son  that  life  is  fair. 

Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  roll'd, 

And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told, 

Thou,  who  recumbent  on  the  lacker'd  barge. 

Hast  dropp'd  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant  marge, 

Thou  may'st  extol  life's  calm,  untroubled  sea, 

The  storms  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee. 

Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  Want  reclines, 
Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  Merit  pines ; 
Abide  with  him  whom  Penury's  charms  control, 
And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul, 
Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and  standing  there. 
Tell  the  poor  pallid  wretch  that  life  is  fair! 

Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head. 
And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  has  fled  ; 
Mark  his  dew'd  temples,  and  his  half-shut  eye, 
His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep-drawn  sigh. 
His  muttering  mouth  contorted  with  despair, 
And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 

Oh,  yes  !  that  sunken  eye  with  fire  once  gleam'd, 
And  rays  of  light  from  its  full  circlet  stream 'd  ; 
But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core. 
And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more  ; 
Domestic  Anguish  winds  his  vitals  round. 
And  added  Grief  compels  him  to  the  ground. 
Lo  !  o'er  his  manly  form,  decay'd  and  wan. 
The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on  ; 
And  the  pale  mother,  pining  to  decay, 
Weeps  for  her  boy  her  wrenched  life  away. 


100 


COMPLETE    WORKS 


Go,  child  of  Fortune  !  to  his  early  grave, 

Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  ranlt  weeds  wave  ; 

Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  her  head 

On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 

Go,  cliiid  of  Fortune,  take  thy  lesson  there. 

And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  loondrous  fair  I 

Yet,  Lorl't,  in  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretch'd  forth, 

T'  encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth  ; 

On  thee,  the  unhappy's  firm,  unfailing  friend, 

'Tis  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend  ; 

'Tis  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show 

Her  fairer  side  but  little  mix'd  with  wo. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

Sad  solitary  Thought^  who  keep'st  thy  vigils, 

Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mind  ; 

Connnuning  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul. 

And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie    • 

In  dim  obscurity  before  him, — thee. 

Wrapt  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  1  call 

At  this  still  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season, 

When  on  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 

I  turn  me  wearisome ;  while  all  around, 

All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness  ; 

I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 

Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb. — Yea,  'tis  the  hand 

Of  Death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals. 

Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 

My  moments  now  are  few — the  sand  of  life 

Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish. — Yet  a  little. 

And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall. 

Silent,  vmseen,  unnoticed,  unlamented. 

Come  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate 

While  meditate  we  may. — W^e  have  now 

But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time  ' 

To  hold  communion  ;  for  even  now  the  knife, 

The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 

The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 

Yes,  I  must  die — I  feel  that  I  must  die  ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  101 

And  though  to  me  has  life  been  dark  and  dreary, 

Though  Hope  for  nie  has  smiled  but  to  deceive, 

And  Disappointment  still  purvsued  her  blandishments, 

Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me 

As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 

The  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank— futurity. 

Ay,  I  had  plann'd  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 

Of  earthly  happiness — romantic  schemes. 

And  fraught  with  loveliness  ;  and  it  is  hard 

To  feel  the  hand  of  Death  arrest  one's  steps. 

Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes, 

And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 

Lost  in  the  gaping  galf  of  blank  oblivion. 

Fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 

Oh  !  none  ; — another  busy  brood  of  beings 

Will  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 

Will  hold  him  in  remembrance.     I  shall  sink. 

As  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 

Of  busy  London: — Some  short  bustle's  caused, 

A  few  inquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in. 

And  all's  forgotten.— On  my  grassy  grave 

The  men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread, 

And  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 

Nor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears. 

Recall  my  vanish'd  memory. — I  did  hope 

For  better  things  ! — I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 

The  earth  without  a  vestige  ;— Fate  decrees 

It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 

Henceforth,  oh,  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires  ! 

No  more  of  hope  !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope  ! 

I  abjure  all.— Now  other  cares  engross  me, 

And  my  tired  soul,  with  emulative  haste. 

Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  its  wings  for  Heaven. 


PASTORAL  SONG. 

Come,  Anna  !  come,  the  morning  dawns. 
Faint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies 

Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns, 
And  watch  the  early  lark  arise  ; 
9* 


102  COMPLETE    WORKS 

While  Nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay, 
Haiis  the  loved  return  of  day. 

Our  flocks,  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 
Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale  ; 

And  then,  secure  beneath  the  shade, 
We'll  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale  ; 
•    And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above, 
As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 

Come,  Anna  !  come,  and  bring  thy  lute, 

That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet, 
In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute, 
Ws  may  beguile  the  noontide  heat  ;^ 
While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join, 
To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 

And  then  at  eve,  when  silence  reigns. 

Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum, 
We'll  leave  the  sober-tinted  plains. 

To  these  sweet  heights  again  we'll  come  ; 
And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shalt  play 
A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 


VERSES. 

When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 

Of  wealth,  my  heart  with  gall  embued, 
I  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  morn 

Of  silence,  in  the  solitude  ; 
To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing, 
Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring. 
To  lie  and  muse  alone — alone, 
Wliile  the  tinkling  waters  moan. 
Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 
Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 

Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there's  enow 

To  fill  life's  dusty  way  ; 
And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 

Or  wonder  where  he  stray  : 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


103 


So  to  the  woods  and  waste  I'll  go, 
And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower  ; 

And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  flow 
The  meditative  hour. 

And  when  the  Autumn's  withering  hand 
Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie  : 
And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  nights 
I'll  Usten  to  the  shrieking  sprites, 
Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods. 
Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods  ; 
Or,  as  it  drifted  soft  and  slow. 
Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow. 
#  *  * 


EPIGRAM 

ON   ROBERT   BLOOMFIELD. 

Bloomfield,  thy  happy-omen'd  name 
Ensures  continuance  to  thy  fame  ; 
Both  sense  and  truth  this  verdict  give, 
While  fields  shall  bloom,  thy  name  shall  live  ! 


ODE  TO  MIDNIGHT. 

Season  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still. 
Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chill. 

But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight. 
Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  high, 
My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 

I  sit  and  taste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 

Yon  pensive  orb,  that  through  the  ether  sails, 
And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales. 

Hanging  in  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flame, 
To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline. 
Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine. 

And  sing  the  gentle  honors  of  her  name  ; 


104  COMPLETE    WORKS 

While  Fancy  lone  o'er  me  her  votary  bends, 
To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  visions  sends, 

And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling-  song, 
And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come. 
See,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom  ! 

See  round  yon  church-yard  elm  what  spectres  throng  ? 

Meanwhile  I  tune,  to  some  romantic  lay, 
My  flagelet — and,  as  I  pensive  play. 

The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountain  scene  : 
The  traveller  late  journeying  o'er  the  moors 
Hears  them  aghast, — (while  still  the  dull  owl  pours 

Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between,) 

Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light 
Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night, 

Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  keep, 
And,  'mid  the  dreary  solitude  serene. 
Cast  a  much-meaning  glance  upon  the  scene, 

And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  Heaven,  and  weep. 


ODE  TO   THOUGHT. 


Written  at  midnight. 


I. 

Hence  away,  vindictive  Thought ! 

Thy  pictures  are  of  pain  ; 
The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught, 
So  prithee  back  again. 
I  would  not  weep, 
I  wish  to  sleep. 
Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  me  thy  vigils  keep  ^ 

n. 

Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  .'' 

Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
Pale  visitant,  is  it  not  thine 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  105 

To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine, 
The  dark  vault  of  the  night : 
'Tis  thine  to  die, 
While  o'er  the  eye 
The  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  waking  sorrows  fly. 

III. 

Go  thou,  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 

His  bark  through  lonely  seas ; 
And  as  reclining  on  his  helm. 
Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm, 
To  him  thou  mayst  bring  ease  ; 
But  thou  to  me 
Art  misery, 
So  prithee,  prithee,  plume  tny  wings,  and  from  my  pU 
low  flee. 

IV. 

And,  Memory,  pray  what  art  thou  ? 

Art  thou  of  pleasure  born  ? 
Does  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
The  rose  that  gems  thy  pensive  brow, 
Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 
With  all  thy  smiles, 
And  witching  wiles. 
Yet  not  unfrequent  bitterness  thy  mournful  sway  defiles. 


The  drowsy  night-watch  has  forgot 

To  call  the  solemn  hour ; 
Lull'd  by  the  winds  he  slumbers  deep, 
While  I  in  vain,  capricious  Sleep, 
Invoke  thy  tardy  power  ; 
And  restless  lie. 
With  unclosed  eye. 
And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute  by. 


106  COMPLETE    WORKS 

GENIUS. 

AN  ODE. 
I.     1. 

Many  there  be,  who,  through  the  vale  of  life, 

With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go, 
While  jarring  Discord's  inharmonious  strife 

Awakes  them  not  to  wo. 
By  them  unheeded,  carking  Care, 
Green-eyed  Grief,  and  dull  Despair ; 
Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way. 

With  even  tenor  and  with  equal  breath, 
Alike  through  cloudy  and  through  sunny  day, 

Then  sink  in  peace  to  death. 

II.  1. 

But,  ah  !  a  few  there  be  whom  griefs  devour, 

And  weeping  Wo,  and  Disappointment  keen, 
Repining  Penury,  and  Sorrow  sour, 

And  self-consuming  Spleen. 
And  these  are  Genius'  favorites  :  these 
Know  the  thought-throned  mind  to  please. 
And  from  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw 

To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll. 
Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  Rapture's  law. 

The  captivated  soul. 

III.  1. 

Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 

High  above  the  burning  zone, 
In  radient  robe  of  light  array'd. 
Oh  !  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favorite  made, 

His  melancholy  moan. 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows. 

Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days, 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gav'st  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 

The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  scorn  ; 
And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  107 

Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel, 
His  high  indignant  pride. 

I.  2. 

Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life. 

That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed ; 
For,  ah,  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife 
Distraut  his  hapless  head  ! 
For  him  awaiis  no  balmy  sleep. 
He  wakes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep  ; 
Or  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits 

At  solemn  midnight  when  the  peasant  sleeps, 
In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 
His  mournful  vigils  keeps. 

n.  2. 

And,  oh  !  for  what  consumes  his  watchful  oil  ? 

For  what  does  thus  he  waste  life's  fleeting  breath  ? 
'Tis  for  neglect  and  penary  he  doth  toil, 

'Tis  for  untimely  death. 
Lo  !  where  dejected  pale  he  lies, 
Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes. 
He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease. 

He  sees  the  grave  wide-yawning  for  its  prey, 
Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soul  to  peace, 

And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 

HI.  2. 

By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame,/ 
By  gentle  Otway's  magic  name. 
By  him,  the  youth,  who  smiled  at  death, 
And  rashly  dared  to  stop  his  vital  breath, 

Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim  ; 
For  still  to  misery  closely  thou'rt  allied. 
Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side. 

And  far-resounding  Fame. 
What  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low  ; 
Though  unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe. 
And  thou  at  thy  flash 'd  car  dost  nations  draw, 
Yet,  ah  !  unseen  behind  thee  fly 

Corroding  Anguish,  soul-subduing  Pain, 
And  Discontent  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky  : 


108  COMPLETE    WORKS 

A  melancholy  train. 
Yes,  Genius,  thee  a  thousand  cares  await, 
Mocking  thy  derided  state  ; 
Thee  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend, 
Before  whose  face  fhes  fast  the  summer's  friend. 

And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn  ; 
While  leaden  Ignorance  rears  her  head  and  laughs, 

And  fat  Stupidity  shakes  his  jolly  sides. 
And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs 
With  bee-eyed  Wisdom,  Genius  derides, 
Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  outbrave, 
To  gain  the  meed  of  praise,  when  he  is  mouldering  in 
his  grave. 


FRAGxMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  THE  MOON. 
I. 

Mild  orb,  who  floatest  through  the  realm  of  night, 

A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild. 
Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light. 

Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  beguiled. 
Now  doubly  dear  as  o'er  my  silent  seat, 
Nocturnal  Study's  still  retreat. 
It  casts  a  mournfal  melancholy  gleam. 
And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves. 
Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves. 
An  intermingled  beam. 

II. 

These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang. 

This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame  : 
These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang. 

These  ar^  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame  ! 
Pale  Moon,  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my  soul ; 

Lowly  I  kneel  before  thy  shrine  on  high  ; 
My  lamp  expires  ; — beneath  thy  mild  control. 

These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 

Come,  kindred  mourner,  in  my  breast 

Soothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest, 

And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace  ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  109 


Mild  visiter,  I  feel  thee  here, 
It  is  not  pain  that  brings  this  tear, 
For  thou  hast  bid  it  cease. 

Oh  !  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away 
Since  I,  beneath  thy  fairy  ray 
Attun'd  my  infant  reed. 
When  wilt  thou.  Time,  those  days  restore, 
Those  happy  moments  now  no  more — 


When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  1  lay. 

And  mark'd  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
Bland  Hope  and  Fancy,  ye  were  there 
To  inspirate  my  trance. 

Twin  sisters,  faintly  now  ye  deign 
Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  shed, 
In  vain  your  powers  are  now  essay 'd 
To  chase  superior  pain. 

And  art  thou  fled,  thou  welcome  orb  ? 

So  swiftly  pleasure  flies  ; 
So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost, 

The  beam  of  ardor  dies. 
Wan  Moon,  thy  nightly  task  is  done, 
And  now,  encurtain'd  in  the  main, 

Thou  sinkest  into  rest ; 
But  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed 

Shall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose — 


FRAGMENT. 

Loud  rage  the  winds  without. — The  wintry  cloud 
O'er  the  cold  north  star  casts  her  flitting  shroud  ; 
And  Silence,  prusing  in  some  snow-clad  dale. 
Starts  as  she  hears,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale ; 
Where  now,  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat, 
Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat. 
Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood. 
Retire  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ^ 
10 


110  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Shivering"  and  blue  the  peasant  eyes  askance 
The  drifted  fleeces  that  around  him  dance, 
And  hurries  on  his  half-averted  form, 
Stemming  the  fury  of  the  side-long  storm. 
Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topt  [cot  of  thatch,] 
Soon  shall  his  'numb'd  hand  tremble  on  the  latch, 
Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 
Difluse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  hit  frame  ; 
Round  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind  loud. 
What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd  ; 
These  hail  his  coming — these  his  meal  prepare,  . 
And  boast  in  all  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 

What,  though  the  social  circle  be  denied, 
Even  Sadness  brightens  at  her  own  fire-side, 
Loves,  with  fixed  eye,  to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze, 
While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days ; 
Or  Hope,  bless'd  spirit !  smiles — and  still  forgiven. 
Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  Heaven. 
Then  heap  the  fire — shut  out  the  biting  air, 
And  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair  : 
Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silent  fit,  'tis  sweet 
To  hear  without  the  bitter  tempest  beat 
All,  all  alone — to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh. 
The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity. 


FRAGMENT. 

Oh  !  tljiou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train. 
Consumption  !  silent  cheater  of  the  eye  ; 

Thou  com'st  not  robed  in  agonizing  pain, 

Nor  mark'st  thy  course  with  Death's  delusive  dye, 
But  silent  and  unnoticed  thou  dost  lie  ; 

O'er  life's  soft  springs  thy  venom  dost  diffuse, 
And,  while  thou  giv'st  new  lustre  to  the  eye. 

While  o'er  the  cheek  are  spread  health's  ruddy  hues, 

Even  then  life's  little  rest  thy  cruel  power  subdues. 

Oft  I've  beheld  thee,  in  the  glow  of  youth 
Hid  'neath  the  blushing  roses  which  there  bloom'd, 


OF    H.    K.    VvHITE.  Ill 

And  dropp'd  a  tear,  for  then  thy  cankering  tooth 
I  knew  would  never  stay,  till  all  consumed, 
In  the  cold  vault  of  death  he  were  entomb'd. 

But  oh  !  what  sorrow  did  I  feel,  as  swift, 
Insiduous  ravager,  I  saw  thee  fly 

Through  fair  Lucina's  breast  of  whitest  snow, 
Preparing  swift  her  passage  to  the  sky. 

Thougn  still  intelligence  beam'd  in  the  glance, 
The  liquid  lustre  of  her  line  blue  eye  ; 

Yet  soon  did  languid  listlessness  advance. 

And  soon  she  calmly  sunk  in  death's  repugnant  trance. 

Even  when  her  end  was  swiftly  drawing  near 
And  dissolution  hover'd  o'er  her  head  : 

Even  then  so  beauteous  did  her  form  appear 
That  none  who  saw  her  but  admiring  said, 
Sure  so  much  beauty  never  could  be  dead. 

Yet  the  dark  lash  of  her  expressive  eye, 

Bent  lowly  down  upon  the  languid — 


SOJVJVETS. 


TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

LoPFT,  unto  thee  one  tributary  song 

The  simple  Muse,  admiring,  fain  would  bring ; 
She  longs  to  lisp  thee  to  the  listening  throng, 

And  with  thy  name  to  bid  the  woodlands  ring. 
Fain  would  she  blazon  all  thy  virtues  forth. 

Thy  warm  philanthropy,  thy  justice  mild. 
Would  say  how  thou  didst  foster  kindred  worth. 

And  to  thy  bosom  snatch'd  Misfortune's  child  ; 
Firm  she  would  paint  thee,  with  jDccoming  zeal, 

Upright,  and  learned,  as  the  Pylian  sire, 


112  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Would  say  how  sweetly  thou  couldst  sweep  the  lyre, 
And  show  thy  labors  for  the  public  weal. 

Ten  thousand  virtues  tell  with  joys  supreme, 

But  ah  !  she  shrinks  abash 'd  before  the  arduous  theme. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER. 

Sublime,  emerging-  from  the  misty  verge 
Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee.  Moon,  I  hail, 
As  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove,  the  gale 

Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funereal  dirge. 

Now  Autumn  sickens  on  the  languid  sight, 

And  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  lonely  way, 

Now  unto  thee,  pale  arbitress  of  night. 
With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 
When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  the  day, 

And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight, 
How  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray 

Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  ethereal  height, 
And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 
The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Fast  from  the  West  the  fading  day -streaks  fly, 

And  ebon  Night  assumes  her  solemn  sway. 
Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time,  I  lie, 

And  o'er  my  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 
Oh  I  'tis  not  long  since,  George,  with  thee  I  woo'd 

The  maid  of  musings  by  yon  moaning  wave, 
And  hail'd  the  moon's  mild  beam,  which  now  renewed, 

Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave  ! 
The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way. 

The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round, 
Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay ; 

Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound. 
Oh  !  that,  like  thee,  I,might  bid  sorrow  cease. 
And  'neath  the  green-sward  sleep  the  sleep  of  peace. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  115 


TO  MISFORTUNE. 


Misfortune,  I  am  young,  my  chin  is  bare, 

And  I  have  wonder'd  much  when  men  have  told, 
How  youth  was  free  from  sorrow  and  from  care, 

That  thou  shouldst  dwell  with  me,  and  leave  the  old. 
Sure  dost  not  like  me  ! — Shrivell'd  hag  of  hate, 

My  phiz,  and  thanks  to  thee,  is  sadly  long ; 

I  am  not  either.  Beldam,  over  strong ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate. 
For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter  hate. 
Nay,  shake  not  thus  thy  miserable  pate, 
I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  like  thy  face  ; 
And,  lest  thou  shouldst  resume  the  wild-goose  chase, 
I'll  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat  to  assuage, 
Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my  age. 


As  thus  oppress'd  with  many  a  heavy  care, 
(Though  young  yet  sorrowful,)  I  turn  my  feet 
To  the  dark  woodland,  longing  much  to  greet 

The  form  of  Peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there  ; 

Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair, 

Fills  my  sad  breast ;  and,  tired  with  this  vain  coil, 

I  shrink  dismay'd  before  life's  upland  toil. 

And  as  amid  the  leaves  the  evening  air 

Whispers  still  melody, — I  think  ere  long. 

When  I  no  more  can  hear,  these  woods  will  speak  , 

And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek. 

And  mournful  fantasies  upon  me  throng. 

And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight. 

On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night. 


TO  APRIL. 

Emblem  of  life  !  see  changeful  April  sail 
In  varying  vest  along  the  shadowy  skies,^ 
Now  bidding  Summer's  softest  zephyrs  risCj 

Anon,  recalling  Winter's  stormy  gale, 
10* 


114  COMPLETE    WORKS 

And  pouring  from  the  cloud  her  sudden  hail ; 
'  Then,  smiling  through  the  tear  that  dims  her  eyes, 

While  Iris  with  her  braid  the  welkin  dyes, 
Promise  of  sunshine,  not  so  prone  to  fail. 
So,  to  us,  sojourners  in  Life's  low  vale. 
The  smiles  of  Fortune  flatter  to  deceive. 
While  still  the  Fates  the  web  of  Misery  weave ; 
So  Hope  exultant  spreads  her  aery  sail, 
And  from  the  present  gloom  the  soul  conveys 
To  distant  summers  and  far  happier  days. 


Ye  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies. 
At  evening  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear, 

As  by  the  wood-spring  stretch'd  supine  he  lies, 
When  he  who  now  invokes  you  low  is  laid. 

His  tired  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  bed. 

Hold  ye  your  nightly  vigils  o'er  his  head, 
And  chant  a  dirge  to  his  reposing  shade  I 

For  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals  ; 
And  often  by  the  haunted  stream  that  laves , 
The  dark  sequester'd  woodland's  inmost*  caves. 

Would  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls, 

Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  in  his  eye, 

And  his  big  heart  would  heave  with  mournful  ecstasy. 


TO  A  TAPER. 


'Tis  midnight — On  the  globe  dead  slumber  sits, 

And  all  is  silence — in  the  hour  of  sleep  ; 
Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by  fits. 

In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfully  and  deep. 
I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep. 

To  watch,  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  burn  ; 
And,  as  still  Memory  does  her  vigils  keep. 

To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head, 

My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom ; 
And  the  sad  meaning  tear,  unmix'd  with  dread. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  115 

Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Like  thee  I  wane  ;—  like  ihine  my  life's  last  ray- 
Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

And  canst  thou,  Mother,  for  a  moment  think, 
That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
Its  blanching  honors  on  thy  weary  head, 

Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink  ? 

Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink 
Than  we,  ungrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day, 
To  pine  in  solitude  thy  life  away. 

Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink 

Banish  the  thought  !— where'er  our  steps  may  roam. 
O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree. 
Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee, 

Aiid  paint  th  e  pleasures  of  thy  peaceful  home  ; 

While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage. 

And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 


Yes,  'twill  be  over  soon. — This  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain  ; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before,— 

Yon  landscape  smile,— yon  golden  harvest  grow, — 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing  will  soar 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends  caress. 

They  laugh  m  health,  and  future  evils  brave  ; 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless. 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just— Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup  ; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


116  COMPLETE    WORKS 


TO  CONSUMPTION. 


Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand  ! — let  me  decay, 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away. 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 

And  if  'tis  true,  what  holy  men  have  said, 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death,  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 

0  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed. 

Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony. 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear  : 

That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 
Ere  i  depart  upon  my  journey  drear  : 

And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past, 

Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 


TRANSLATED 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  M.  DESBARREAUX. 

Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just ;  thou  lov'st  to  wear 

The  face  of  pity  and  of  love  divine  ; 
But  mine  is  guilt — thou  must  not,  canst  not  spare, 

While  Heaven  is  true,  and  equity  is  thine. 
Yes,  oh  my  God  ! — such  crimes  as  mine,  so  dread, 

Leave  but  the  choice  of  punishment  to  thee  ; 
Thy  interest  calls  for  judgment  on  my  head. 

And  even  thy  mercy  dares  not  plead  for  me  ! 
Thy  will  be  done — since  'tis  thy  glory's  due, 

Bid  from  mine  eyes  the  endless  torrents  flow  ; 
Smite — it  is  time — though  endless  death  ensue, 

I  bless  the  avenging  hand  that  lays  me  low. 
But  on  what  spot  shall  fall  thine  anger's  flood, 
That  has  not  first  been  drench'd  in   Christ's  atoning 
blood  .? 


POEMS 

OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DISTRESS, 

Who,  when  Henry  reasoned  with  hitn  calmly,  asked, 

« If  he  did  not  feel  for  him  ? ' 

'  Do  I  not  feel  V    The  doubt  is  keen  as  steel. 

Yea,  I  do  feel — most  exquisitely  feel  ; 

My  heart  can  weep,  when  from  my  downcast  eye 

I  chase  the  tenr,  and  stem  the  rising  sigh  : 

Deep  buried  there  I  close  the  rankling  dart, 

And  smile  the  most  when  heaviest  is  my  heart. 

On  this  I  act — whatever  pangs  surround, 

'  Tis  magnanimity  to  hide  the  wound ! 

When  all  was  new,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 

I  lived  an  unloved  solitary  thing  ; 

Even  then  I  learn 'd  to  bury  deep  from  day, 

The  piercinof  cares  that  wore  my  youth  away  : 

Even  then  f  learn'd  for  others'  cares  to  feel  ; 

Even  then  I  wept  I  had  not  power  to  heal  : 

Even  then,  deep-sounding  through  the  nightly  gloom, 

I  heard  the  wretched's  groan,  and  mourn 'd  the  wretch- 

ed's  doom. 
Who  were  my  friends  in  youth  ?— The  midnight  fire— 
The  silent  moon-beam,  or  the  starry  choir  ; 
To  these  I  'plained,  or  turn'd  from  outer  sight, 
To  bless  my  lonely  taper's  friendly  light ; 
I  never  yet  could  ask,  howe'er  forlorn. 
For  vulgar  pity  mix'd  with  vulgar  scorn 
The  sacred  source  of  wo  I  never  ope, 


118  COMPLETE    WORKS 

My  .breast's  my  coffer,  and  my  God's  my  hope. 
But  that  1  do  feel,  Time,  my  friend,  will  show, 
Though  the  cold  crowd  the  secret  never  know  ; 
With  them  I  laugh — yet,  when  no  eye  can  see, 
I  weep  for  nature,  and  I  weep  for  thee. 
Yes,  thou  didst  wrong  me,  ***=;!  fondly  thought 
In  thee  Td  found  the  friend  my  heart  had  sought ! 
I  fondly  thought,  that  thou  couldst  pierce  the  guisC; 
And  read  the  truth  that  in  my  bosom  lies  ; 
I  fondly  thought  ere  Time's  last  days  were  gone. 
Thy  heart  and  mine  had  mingled  into  one  ! 
Yes — and  they  yet  will  mingle.     Days  and  years 
Will  fly,  and  leave  us  partners  in  our  tears  : 
We  then  shall  feel  that  friendship  has  a  power 
To  soothe  afiliction  in  her  darkest  hour  ; 
Time's  trial  o'er,  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
And  wait  the  passport  to  a  better  land. 
Thine, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

Half  past  Eleven  o'Clock  at  Night. 


CHRISTMAS-DAY 
1804. 

Yet  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake  my  Harp, 
From  silence  and  neglect — one  lofty  strain. 
Lofty,  yet  wilder  than  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
Ajid  speaking  mysLeries  more  than  words  can  tell, 
I  ask  of  thee,  for  I,  with  hymnings  high. 
Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 

Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods, 
Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch,  or  ivy  sear, 
Wreath  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December  !  now  ; 
Me  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song, 
And  fearful  joy,  to  celebrate  the  day 
Of  the  Redeemer. — Near  two  thousand  suns 
Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 
Of  generations,  since  the  day-s*pring  first 


OP    H.    K.    WhITE.  119 

Beamed  from  on  high  ! — Now  to  the  mighty  mass 
Of  that  increasing  aggregate  we  add 
One  unit  more*     Space,  in  comparison, 
How  small,  yet  mark'd  with  how  much  misery  ; 
Wars,  famines,  and  the  fury,  Pestilence, 
Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread  scourge  ; 
The  oppress'd,  too,  in  silent  bitterness. 
Weeping  their  sufferance  ;  and  the  arm  of  wrong. 
Forcing  the  scanty  portion  from  the  weak. 
And  steeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 

So  has  the  year  been  character'd  with  wo 

In  Christian  land,  and  mark'd  with  wrongs  and  crimes ; 

Yet  'twas  not  thus  He  taught — not  thus  He  lived, 

Whose  birth  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 

And  much  thanksgiving. — He,  a  man  of  woes, 

Went  on  the  way  appointed, — path,  though  rude. 

Yet  borne  with  patience  still  : — He  came  to  cheer 

The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick. 

And  on  the  wandering  and  benighted  mind 

To  pour  the  light  of  truth. — 0  task  divine  ! 

O  more  than  angel  teacher  !     He  had  words 

To  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds  ; 

And  when  the  soul  was  toss'd  in  troubled  seas, 

Wrapp'd  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm, 

He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 

Arm'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 

At  the  surrounding  wreck. 

When  w4th  deep  agony  his  heart  was  rack'd. 
Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dew'd  his  cheek. 
For  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  pray'd, 
His  persecutors — '  Father,  pardon  them, 
They  know  not  what  they  do.' 

Angels  of  Heaven, 
Ye  who  beheld  Him  fainting  on  the  cross. 
And  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  risen  God  } 
Will  the  faint  voice  and  grovelling  song  be  heard 
Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 
Yes,  He  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign, 
For  mercy,  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith. 
Low  though  it  be  and  humble. — Lord  of  life, 
The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thij;ie  advent  now 


120  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Fills  my  uprising  soul. — I  mount,  I  fly 
Far  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs  ; 
The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes, 
And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  are  no  more. 


NELSONI   MORS. 

Yet  once  again,  my  Harp,  yet  once  again, 

One  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain  ash 

I  will  again  suspend  thee.     I  have  felt 

The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last, 

At  eventide,  when  all  the  winds  were  hush'd, 

I  woke  to  thee  the  melancholy  song. 

Since  then  with  Thoughtfulness,  a  maid  severe, 

Pve  journey 'd,  and  have  learn 'd  to  shape  the  freaks 

Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  hne  of  truth  ; 

Not  unrepining,  for  my  froward  heart. 

Still  turns  to  thee,  mine  Harp,  and  to  the  flow 

Of  spring-gales  past — the  woods  and  storied  haunts 

Of  my  not  songless  boyhood. — Yet  once  more, 

Not  fearless,  I  will  wake  thy  tremulous  tones, 

My  long  neglected  Harp. — He  must  not  sink ; 

The  good,  the  brave — he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Though  from  the  Muse's  chalice  I  may  pour 

No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well. 

Or  Castaly, — though  from  the  morning  cloud 

I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse  : 

Yet  will  I  wreath  a  garland  for  his  brows, 

Of  simple  flowers,  such  as  the  hedge-rows  scent 

Of  Britain,  my  loved  country  ;  and  with  tears 

Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 

Thy  honor 'd  corse,  my  J^elson,  tears  as  warm 

And  honest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 

Fast  from  thy  honest  heart. — Thou,  Pity,  too, 

If  ever  I  have  loved,  with  faltering  step. 

To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night, 

To  the  top-crag  of  some  raiurbeaten  cliff*; 

And  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  1^1 

Amid  tlie  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  pour'd 

Wild  strains,  and  mournfuJ,  to  the  hurrying  winds, 

The  dying  soul's  viaticum  ;  if  oft 

Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I've  sat 

With  thee  upon  the  moonlight  throne,  and  sung 

To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  souL 

With  mercy  and  forgiveness — visitant 

Of  Heaven — sit  thou  upon  my  harp, 

And  give  it  feeling,  which  were  else  too  cold 

For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 

How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 
Kerchief 'd  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when 


HYMN. 


In  Heaven  we  shall  be  purified,  so  as  to  be  able  to  endure  the  splendors  of  the  Deity. 

I. 

Awake,  sweet  harp  of  Judah,  wake, 
Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesus'  sake  ; 
We  sing  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 
The  Lamb,  our  shield,  and  hiding-place. 

II. 

When  God's  right  arm  is  bared  for  war, 
And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car, 
Where,  where,  oh  where,  shall  man  retire. 
To  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ^ 

IIL 

'Tis  he,  the  Lamb,  to  him  we  fly, 
While  the  dread  tempest  passes  by  ; 
God  sees  his  Well-beloved's  face. 
And  spares  us  in  our  hiding-place. 

IV. 

Thus  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene, 
The  Lamb  is  our  unfailing  screen ; 
11 


122  COMPLETE    WORKS 

To  him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
And  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 


While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below, 
Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow  ; 
Fallen,  abject,  mean,  a  sentenced  race, 
We  deeply  need  a  hiding-place. 

VI. 

Yet  courage — days  and  years  will  glide. 
And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside ; 
Shall  be  baptized  in  Jordan's  flood. 
And  wash'd  in  Jesus'  cleansing  blood. 

VII. 

Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed. 
We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed ; 
Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face, 
And  need  no  more  a  hiding-place. 

The  last  stanza  of  this  hymn  was  added  extemporaneously,  by  Henry,  one  summer 
evening,  when  he  was  with  a  few  friends  on  the  Trent,  and  singing  it  as  he  was  used  to 
do  on  such  occasions. 


A  HYMN. 

FOR  FAMILY  WORSHIP. 
I. 

Lord,  another  day  is  flown. 
And  we,  a  lonely 'band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 
To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

II. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear, 

To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
Thou  wilt  !  for  Thou  dost  love  to  hear 

The  song  which  meekness  pours. 


I 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 
III. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  will  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray  ; 
For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

IV. 

0  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 

And  let  contention  cease  ; 
And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 

Thine  everlasting  peace  ! 

V. 

Thus  chasten'd,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led  ; 
The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine. 

In  glory  on  our  head. 

VI. 

And  thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering  feet, 
And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way  ; 

Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 
I. 

When  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky  ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train. 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

II. 

Hark  !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


123 


124  COMPLETE    WORKS 


III. 


Once  on  the  raging"  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud, — the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawn'd — and  rudely  blow'd 

The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering  bark. 

IV. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem  ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

V. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease  ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

VI. 

Now  safely  moor'd — my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem. 

For  ever  and  for  evermore. 

The  star  !— The  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


A   HYMN. 

0  Lord,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn, 
In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn  ! 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  cry, 

0  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die  \ 

1  strove  against  thee.  Lord,  I  know, 

I  spurn'd  thy  grace,  I  mock'd  thy  law  ; 
The  hour  is  past— the  day's  gone  by, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 

0  pleasures  past,  what  are  ye  now 
But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow  ! 
Spectres  that  hover  round  my  brain, 
And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  126 

For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul ; 
Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll ! 
Now  Vengeance  smile — and  with  a  blow, 
Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 

Yet,  Jesus,  Jesus  !  there  I'll  cling, 
I'll  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing  ; 
ril  clasp  the  cross,  and  holding  there. 
Even  me,  oh  bliss  ! — his  wrath  may  spare. 


MELODY. 

Inserted  in  a  Collection  of  Selected  and  Original  Songs,  published    by  the    Rev.  J. 
Plumptre,  of  Clare  Hall,  Cambridge. 

I. 

Yes,  once  more  that  dying  strain, 

Anna,  touch  thy  lute  for  me  ; 
Sweet,  when  Pity's  tones  complain, 

Doubly  sweet  is  melody. 

II. 

While  the  Virtues  thus  enweave 

Mildly  soft  the  thrilling  song, 
Winter's  long  and  lonesome  eve 

Glides  unfelt,  unseen,  along. 

III. 

Thus  when  life  hath  stolen  away, 
And  the  wintry  night  is  near, 

Thus  shall  Virtues  friendly  ray 
Age's  closing  evening  cheer. 


SONG.— BY  WALLER. 

A  lady  of  Cambridge  lent  Waller's  Poems  to  Henry,  and  when  he  returned  them  to 
her,  she  discovered  an  additional  Stanza  written  by  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  Song 
here  copied. 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  on  me, 
That  now  she  knows, 
11* 


126  COMPLETE    WORKS 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide. 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

[Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise  ; 

And  teach  the  Maid 
That  Goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies  ; 
That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies.] 

H.  K.  White. 


'I  AM   PLEASED,   AND   YET   I'M   SAD.* 
I. 

When  twilight  steals  along  the  ground, 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
I  at  my  study-window  sit. 
And,  wrapp'd  in  many  a  musing  fit, 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

II. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

And  I  am  inly  glad, 
The  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye, 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 

I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad. 

III. 

The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray. 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man. 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan. 

Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ^ 

IV. 

Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop. 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top 

Must  bend  my  lonely  way  .? 
No,  surely  no  !  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 
At  home  where'er  I  stray. 

V. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there. 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air. 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh,  no  !  oh,  no  !  for  then  forgiven 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  Heaven, 

Released  from  every  fear. 

IV. 

Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell. 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I'm  glad  ; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye. 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why, 

Or  wherefore  I  am  sad. 


127 


128  COMPLETE    WORKS 


SOLITUDE. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow  ; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam. 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home  ; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs. 
With  hallow 'd  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone. 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead, 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed  ; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh  ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale  ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free. 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too ; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove 
Domestic  peace,  connubial  love. 
The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer, 
Aflection's  voice,  affection's  tear. 
Ye  sterner  powers,  that  bind  the  heart, 
To  me  your  iron  aid  impart ! 
0  teach  me,  when  the  nights  are  chill, 
And  my  fire-side  is  lone  and  still  ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


129 


When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  near, 
I  turn  a  tired  and  pensive  ear, 
And  Nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh, 
For  love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh 

0  teach  me,  on  that  heavenly  road. 
That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode. 
To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  divine, 
Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 
Let  bless'd  Philosophy  impart 

Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart ; 
And  while  with  Plato's  ravish'd  ears 

1  list  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
Or  on  the  mystic  symbols  pore. 
That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore, 
I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone. 
Nor  think  that  1  am  all  alone. 


Fanny  !  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie  ! 

Fanny  !  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak  ! 
Where  art  thou,  love  ?— Around  I  turn  my  eye, 

And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 

Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ?— Methought  the  breath 
Fann'd  not  her  bloodless  lip  ;  her  eye  was  cold 

And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 
Invested  her  pale  forehead.— Sainted  maid  ! 

My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave. 

Through  the  long  wintry  night,  when  wind  and  wave 
Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 
Yet,  hush  !  my  fond  heart,  hush  !  there  is  a  shore 

Of  better  promise  ;  and  I  know  at  last. 

When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past. 
We  two  shall  meet  in  Christ— to  part  no  more. 


FRAGMENTS. 


These  Fragments  are  Henry's  latest  compositions  ;  and  were,  for  the  most  part,  written 
upon  the  back  of  his  mathematical  papers,  during  the  few  moments  of  the  last  year  of 
his  life,  in  which  he  sutfered  himself  to  follow  the  impulse  of  his  genius. 


I. 

Saw'st  thou  that  light  ?  exclaim'dthe  youth,  and  paused 

Through  yon  dark  firs  it  glanced,  and  on  the  stream 

That  skirts  the  woods  it  for  a  moment  play'd. 

Again,  more  light  it  gleam 'd, — or  does  some  sprite 

Delude  mine  eyes  with  shapes  of  wood  and  streams, 

And  lamp  far-beaming  through  the  thicket's  gloom, 

As  from  some  bosom'd  cabin,  where  the  voice 

Of  revelry,  or  thrifty  watchfulness. 

Keeps  in  the  lights  at  this  unwonted  hour  ? 

No  sprite  deludes  mine  eyes, — the  beam  now  glows 

With  steady  lustre. — Can  it  be  the  moon, 

Who,  hidden  long  by  the  invidious  veil 

That  blots  the  Heavens,  now  sets  behind  the  woods  r 

No  moon  to-night  has  look'd  upon  the  sea 

Of  clouds  beneath  her,  answer'd  Rudiger, 

She  has  been  sleeping  with  Endymion. 


II. 


The  pious  man, 
In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms 
Hide  Heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veil'd 
With  intervening  vapors  ;  and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  131 

The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkness  all ; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  conceal 'd, 
The  glaring  sunbeam  plays. 


III. 


Lo  !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  gray, 
Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes, 
And  from  his  tower  of  mist. 
Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 


IV. 


There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile  ; 

It  perch'd  upon  a  ruin'd  pinnacle, 

And  made  sweet  melody. 

The  song  was  soft,  yet  cheerful,  and  most  clear. 

For  other  note  none  swell'd  the  air  but  his. 

It  seem'd  as  if  the  little  chorister. 

Sole  tenant  of  the  melancholy  pile, 

Were  a  lone  hermit,  outcast  from  his  kind. 

Yet  withal  cheerful. — I  have  heard  the  note 

Echoing  so  lonely  o'er  the  aisle  forlorn, 

Much  musing — 


0  PALE  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 

Thy  melancholy  ray  : 
When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint 

Is  walking  on  her  way. 
Through  my  lattice  leaf  embower'd, 
Fair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam, 
And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room. 
Casts  a  checker'd  twilight  gloom  ; 
I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 

1  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looks  so  mildly  sweet. 


132  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Sad  vestal,  why  art  thou  so  fair, 
Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ? 

Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me,  Moon, 

And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards  ! 
Surely  like  me  thou'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 
Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeding  crowd ; 
So  mournfully  composed,  o'er  yonder  cloud 
Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far 
From  the  rude  watch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave. 


VL 


0  GIVE  me  music— for  my  soul  doth  faint ; 

I'm  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint, 

That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 

Hark  how  it  falls  !  and  now  it  steals  along, 
Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve. 

When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave, 

Mellow  and  many-voiced  ;  where  every  close. 

O'er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflows. 

Oh  !  I  am  rapt  aloft.     My  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 

Lo  !  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
And  floating  pasans  fill  the  buoyant  wind. 

Farewell !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed, 

Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs,— 
#  *  *  * 

\     _ 


VIL 

Ah  !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view^, 
Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  lie  ? 
Ah  !  who  can  give  to  others'  woes  his  sigh, 

Secure  his  own  will  never  need  it  too  ? 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  133 

Let  thoughtless  youth  its  seeming  joys  pursue, 
Soon  will  they  learn  to  scan  with  thoughtful  eye 
The  illusive  past  and  dark  futurity  ; 

Soon  will  they  know — 


VIII. 


And  must  thou  go,  and  must  we  part  ? 

Yes,  Fate  decrees,  and  I  submit ; 
The  pang  that  rends  in  twain  my  heart, 

Oh,  Fanny,  dost  thou  share  in  it  ? 

Thy  sex  is  fickle, — when  away, 

Some  happier  youth  may  win  thy — 


IX. 

SONNET. 

When  I  sit  musing  on  the  checkered  past, 
(A  term  much  darken'd  with  untimely  woes,) 
My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flow's 

The  tear,  though  half  disown'd  ; — and  binding  fast 

Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
I  say  to  her  she  robb'd  me  of  my  rest, 
When  that  was  all  my  wealth. — 'Tis  true  my  breast 

Received  from  her  this  wearying,  lingering  smart, 

Yet,  ah  !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart ; 

Though  wrong'd,  I  love  her — yet  in  anger  love. 
For  she  was  most  unworthy. — Then  I  prove 

Vindictive  joy  ;  and  on  my  stern  front  gleams. 

Throned  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible  *  *  * 

The  native  pride  of  my  much  injured  heart. 

12 


134  COMPLETE    WORKS 


When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream 

Dark  lustre  shed,  my  infant  mind  to  fire, 
Spell-struck,  and  filPd  with  many  a  wondering  dream, 

First  in  the  groves  I  woke  the  pensive  lyre. 
All  there  was  mystery  then,  the  gust  that  woke 

The  midnight  echo  with  a  spirit's  dirge. 
And  unseen  fairies  would  the  moon  invoke. 

To  their  light  morris  by  the  restless  surge. 
Now  to  my  sober'd  thought  with  life's  false  smiles, 

Too  much  *  * 
The  vagrant  Fancy  spreads  no  more  her  wiles, 
And  dark  forebodings  now  my  bosom  fill. 


XI. 

Hush'd  is  the  lyre— the  hand  that  swept 
The  low  and  pensive  wires, 
Robb'd  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 

Yes— it  is  still— the  lyre  is  still ; 

The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke 

Hath  pass'd  away, — and  that  weak  hand  that  woke 
Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 
Yet  I  would  press  you  to  my  lips  once  more. 

Ye  wild,  ye  withering  flowers  of  poesy  ; 
Yet  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  pour, 

Mix'd  with  decaying  odors  :  for  to  me 
Ye  have  beguiled  the  hours  of  infancy, 

As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native — 


XII. 

Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark-woven  lay ; 
I  heard  the  waters  roar, 


05"    H.    K.    WHITE.  1^^ 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
0  thou,  stern  sph-it,  who  dost  dwell 

In  thine  eternal  cell, 
Noting,  gray  chronicler  !  the  silent  years  ; 

I  saw  thee  rise, — I  saw  the  scroll  complete, 

Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet 
The  universe  gave  way. 


TIME, 

A  POEM. 


This  Poem  was  begun  either  dnring  the  publication  of  Clifton  Grove,  or  sh^^ly  afterwards. 
Henry  never  laid  aside  the  intention  of  completing  it,  and  some  of  the  aetacneo  pans 
were  among  his  latest  productions. 


Genius  of  musings,  who,  the  midnight  hour 

Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild. 

Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower. 

Thy  dark  eye  fix'd  as  in  some  holy  trance  ; 

Or  when  the  vollied  lightnings  cleave  the  air, 

And  Ruin  g.iunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 

Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watch-tower,  where  thy  lamp, 

Faint-blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far, 

And,  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmoved 

Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 

The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source, — 

Spirit,  attend  my  lowiy  benison  ! 

For  now  I  strike  to  themes  of  import  high 

The  solitary  lyre  ;  and,  borne  by  thee 

Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 

The  mysteries  of  Time  ! 

Him  who,  august, 
Wa^  ere  these  worlds  were  fashioned, — ere  the  sun 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  display'd 
His  glowing  cresset  in  the  arch  of  morn, 


136  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Or  Vesper  gilded  the  serener  eve. 
Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity  ! 
Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity  ! 
The  harp  of  desolation — ere  his  tones, 
At  God's  command,  assumed  a  milder  strain, 
And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep, 
Chaos'  sluggish  sentry,  and  evoked 
From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe. 

Chain'd  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh, 

Mere  mortal  man,  unpuiged  from  earthly  dross, 

Cannot  survey,  with  fix'd  and  steady  eye, 

The  dim  uncertain  gulf,  which  now  the  muse. 

Adventurous,  v/ould  explore  ; — but  dizzy  grown, 

He  topples  down  the  abyss. — If  he  would  scan 

The  fearful  chasm,  and  catch  a  transient  glimpse 

Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 

His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  God, 

His  only  certainty  and  resting  place  ; 

He  must  put  off"  awhile  this  mortal  vest, 

And  learn  to  follow,  without  giddiness, 

To  heights  »vhere  all  is  vision,  and  surprise, 

And  vague  conjecture. — He  must  waste  by  night 

The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 

Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat ; 

High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest, 

Orin  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness. 

Where,  compass'd  round  with  Nature's  wildest  shapes, 

He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 

In  the  great  Architect,  who  lives  confess'd 

In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes. 

So  has  divine  Philosophy,  with  voice 

Mild  ap,  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 

Tutor'd  the  heart  of  him,  who  now  awakes, 

Touching  the  chords  of  solemn  minstrelsy. 

His  faint,  neglected  song — intent  to  snatch 

Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 

Of  poesy,  a  bloom  of  such  a  hue. 

So  sober,  as  may  not  unseemly  suit 

With  Truth's  severer  brow  ;  and  one  withal 

So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 

Of  many  winters, — rearing  its  meek  head 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  137 

In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gather'd  it 

Is  number'd  with  the  generations  gone. 

Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 

Given  studious  leisure,*  or  unbroken  thought, 

Such  as  he  owns, — a  meditative  man, 

Who  from  the  blush  of  morn  to  quiet  eve 

Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er. 

Far  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din  : 

From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturbed 

With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.     For  me  the  day 

Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 

Of  steadfast  application,  but  which  leave 

No  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 

But  be  the  day  another's  ; — let  it  pass  ! 

The  night's  my  own — They  cannot  steal  my  night !  ^ 

When  evening  lights  her  folding-star  on  high, 

I  live  and  breathe,  and  in  the  sacred  hours 

Of  quiet  and  repose,  my  spirit  flies, 

Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 

And  mounts  the  skies,  and  imps  her  wing  for  Heaven. 

Hence  do  I  love  the  sober-suited  maid ; 

Hence  Night's  my  friend,  my  mistress,  and  my  theme, 

And  she  shall  aid  me  now  to  magnify 

The  night  of  ages, — now  when  the  pale  ray 

Of  star-light  penetrates  the  studious  gloom, 

And,  at  my  window  serted,  while  mankind 

Arc  lock'd  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  freshening  breeze 

Of  stillness  blow,  while,  in  her  saddest  stole, 

Thought^  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine, 

Assumes  her  wonted  sway. 

Behold  the  world 
Rests,  and  her  tired  inhabitants  have  paused 
From  trouble  and  turmoil.     The  widow  now 
Has  ceased  to  weep,  and  her  twin  orphans  lie 
Lock'd  in  each  arm,  partakers  of  her  rest. 
The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes  ; 
The  outcast  that  his  head  is  shelterless. 
His  griefs  unshared. — The  mother  tends  no  more 
Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but,  surprised 
With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch, 

*  The  author  was  then  in  an  attorney's  office 

12^ 


138  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Dreams  of  her  bridals.     Even  the  hectic,  hill'd 

On  Death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapp'd, 

Crowning  with  Hope's  bland  wreath  his  shuddering  nurse, 

Poor  victim  !  smiles. — Silence  and  deep  repose 

Reig-n  o'er  the  nations  ;  and  the  warning  voice 

Of  Nature  utters  audibly  within 

The  general  moral  : — tells  us  that  repose, 

Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 

Is  coming  on  us — that  the  weary  crowds, 

Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm. 

Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapp'd  around 

With  grave-clothes  :  and  their  aching  restless  heads 

Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserved. 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 

Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  flesh  is  grass,  that  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 

What  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  and  what  our  hopes 

But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud  ? 

There's  not  a  wind  that  blows  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  promise  : — Not  a  moment  flies 

But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life. 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

'Tis  but  as  yesterday  since  on  yon  stars. 

Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  Shepherd  *  gazed 

In  his  mid-watch  observant,  and  disposed 

The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 

Have  bufleted  mankind — whole  nations  razed — 

Cities  made  desolate, — the  polish 'd  sank 

To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 

Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  arts  ; 

Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 

Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 

Of  gray  Tradition,  voluble  no  more. 

Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 

Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 

Who  flourish 'd  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 

All  to  the  grave  gone  down.     On  their  fallen  fame 

Exultant,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 

*  Alluding  to  the  first  astronomical  observations  made  by  the  Chaldean  shepherds. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE,  139 

Sits  grim  Forgetfulness. — The  warrior's  arm 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame  ; 
Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaze 
Of  his  red  eye-ball. — Yesterday  his  name 
Was  mighty  on  the  earth — To  day — 'tis  what  ? 
The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years, 
That  tiash'd  unnoticed,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 
Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 
Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 
Point  to  the  mist-poised  shroud,  then  quietly 
Closed  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  up 
Safe  in  the  charnePs  treasures. 

0  how  weak 
Is  mortal  man  !  how  trifling — how  confined 
His  scope  of  vision  !     Puff'd  with  confidence, 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality, 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day  ! 
Dreams  of  eternal  honors  to  his  name  ; 
Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  eternity, 
As  of  the  train  of  ages, — when,  alas  ! 
Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
Are,  in  comparison,  a  little  point 
Too  trivial  for  accompt. — 0,  it  is  strange, 
'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies  ; 
Behold  him  prour'Ty  view  some  pompous  pile, 
Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies. 
And  smile,  and  say,  my  name  shall  live  with  this 
Till  Time  shall  be  no  more  ;  while  at  his  feet, 
Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 
Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day 
Preaches  the  solemn  lesson. — He  should  know 
That  time  must  conquer  ;  that  the  loudest  blast 
That  ever  fill'd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump 
Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 
Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 
Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  or  who 
Rear'd  its  huge  walls  .''     Oblivion  laughs,  and  says, 
The  prey  is  mine.^ — They  sleep,  and  never  more 
Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man, 
Their  memory  bursts  its  fetters. 

Wiere  is  Rome  ? 
She  lives  but  in  the  tale  of  other  times  ; 


140  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home. 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  pubUc  walks, 
Now  laintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  sc'itude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  reveal'd,  her  honor'd  dust. 
But  not  to  Rome  alono  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin  ;  cities  numberless, 
Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 
And  rich  Phoenicia — they  are  blotted  out. 
Half-razed  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
And  being  in  dispute.— Has  Athens  fallen  ? 
Is  polish'd  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
Of  imorance  and  sloth  ^  and  shall  tve  dare 
°  #  *  #  # 


And  empire  seel^s  another  hemisphere. 
Where  now  is  Butain  ?— Where  her  laurell'd  names, 
Her  palaces  and  halls  ?     Dash'd  in  the  dust. 
Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduced  her  pride. 
And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 

TV)  primitive  barbarity. Again, 

Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 

Of  bloody  Superstition  hollow  rings. 

And  the  scared  iiative  to  the  tempest  howls 

The  yell  of  deprecation.     O'er  her  marts. 

Her  crowded  ports,  broods  Silence  ;  and  the  cry 

Of  the  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 

Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void. 

Even  as  the  savage  sits  upon  the  stone 

That  marks  where  stood  her  capitals,  and  hears 

The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 

From  the  dismaying  solitude.— Her  bards 

Sing  in  a  language  that  hath  perished  ; 

And  their  wild  harps  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 

Sis-h  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 

Meanwhile  the  Arts,  in  second  infancy, 
Rise  in  some  distant  clime,  and  then,  perchance, 
Some  bold  adventurer,  fiU'd  with  golden  dreams. 
Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes, 
Where,  to  his  wandering  thoughts,  no  daring  prow 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  141 

Hath  ever  plough'd  before, — espies  the  cliffs 
Of  fallen  Albion. — To  the  land  unknown 
He  journeys  joyuil ;  and  perhaps  descries 
Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness  : 
Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 
Of  the  unheard-of  race,  which  had  arrived 
At  science  in  that  solitary  nook, 
Far  from  the  civil  world ;  and  sagely  sighs, 
And  moralizes  on  the  state  of  man. 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt, 

Moves  on  our  being.     We  do  live  and  breathe, 

And  we  are  gone.     The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 

We  have  our  spring-time  and  our  rottenness ; 

And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds. 

To  perish  likewise. — Meanwhile  Nature  smiles — 

The  seasons  run  their  round — The  sun  fulfils 

His  annual  course — and  Heaven  and  earth  remain 

Still  changing,  yet  unchanged — still  doom'd  lo  feel 

Endless  muiation  In  perpetual  rest. 

Where  are  conceal'd  the  days  which  have  elapsed  ? 

Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  past, 

They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal. 

By  indistinct  and  half-glimpsed  images, 

Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 

Oh,  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch. 

When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave. 

And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casenient  high 

Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  the  hour 

Of  utter  silence,  it  is  fearful  then 

To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude, 

Up  tho  vague  stream  of  probability  ; 

To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past, 

And  turn  the  key  of  Time  ? — Oh  !  who  can  strive 

To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth, 

Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by, 

And  not  i*ecoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 

Of  human  impotence  ?     The  life  of  man 

Is  summ'd  in  birth-days  and  in  sepulchres  : 

But  the  Eternal  God  had  no  beginning  ; 

He  hath  no  end.     Time  had  been  with  him 

For  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 


142  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Rose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness. — Like  him 

It  knew  no  source,  like  him  'twas  uncreate. 

What  is  it  then  ?     The  past  Eternity  ! 

We  comprehend  a  future  without  end  ; 

We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 

May  roll  for  ever  :  but  we  shrink  amazed — 

We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  Time 

Knew  no  commencement, — That  heap  age  on  age, 

And  million  upon  million,  without  end. 

And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days 

That  were,  and  are  not  but  in  retrospect. 

The  Past  is  an  unfathomable  depth. 

Beyond  the  span  of  thought ;  'tis  an  elapse 

Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Change  of  days 
To  us  is  sensible  ;  and  each  revolve 
Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
Fiu'ther  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
Not  so  with  Time, — mysterious  chronicler, 
He  knoweth  not  mutation  ; — centuries 
Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
As  centuries. — Time  past,  nnd  Time  to  come, 
Are  always  equal ;  when  the  world  began 

God  had  existed  from  eternity. 

#        *         *        * 

Now  look  on  man 
Myriads  of  ages  hence. — Hath  time  elapsed  ? 
Is  he  not  standing  in  the  self-same  place 
Where  once  we  stood  ? — The  same  eternity 
Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come  ; 
His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours. 
Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened  ; 
For  who  can  add  to  what  hfs  neither  sum. 
Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end  I 
Oh,  who  can  compass  the  Almighty  mind  ? 
Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
In  speculations  of  an  altitude 
Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  confess'd 
Foolish,  and  insignificant,  and  mean. 
Who  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
Of  finite  beings  1.0  infinity  ? 
He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  143 

Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 

Scoop'd  out  by  human  art  ;  or  bid  the  whale 

Drink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in  ! — Can  the  less 

Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obscure 

Infold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 

What  does  Philosophy  impart  to  man 

But  undiscover'd  wonders  ? — Let  her  soar 

Even  to  her  proudest  heights — to  where  she  caught 

The  soul  of  Newton  and  of  Socrates, 

She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 

And  admiration.     All  her  lessons  end 

In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathom'd  depths. 

Lo  !  the  unletter'd  hind,  who  never  knew 

To  raise  his  mind  excursive  to  the  heights 

Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 

On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side, 

What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring, 

And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 

That  fringe  with  loveUest  hues  the  evening  sky, 

Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  Nature  rouse 

The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 

The  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  God 

Throned  in  the  west,  and  his  reposing  ear 

Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze 

That  floats  through  neighbouring  copse  or  fairy  brake. 

Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 

Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire. 

Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 

And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon  ; 

Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar. 

Silent,  and  big  with  thought ;  and  hear  him  bless 

The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds 

For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys  : 

Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  v/ith  his 

Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 

A  poor  night-traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 

Beats  in  his  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path. 

He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast. 

He  hears  some  village-mastitf's  distant  howl. 

And  sees,  far-streaming,  some  lone  cottage  light ; 

Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes. 

And  clasps  his  shivering  hands  ;  or,  overpower'd, 


144  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weigh'd  down  with  sleep, 

From  which  the  hapless  vvretch  shall  never  wake. 

Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 

And  glowing  gratit  jde, — he  turns  to  bless, 

With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God ! 

And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind. 

Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred 

In  want  and  labor,  glows  with  nobler  zeal 

To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 

Whom  starry  Science  in  her  cradle  rock'd, 

And  Castaly  enchasten'd  with  its  dews, 

Closes  his  eyes  upon  the  holy  word. 

And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride, 

Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity. 

And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 

What  is  pliilosophy,  if  it  impart 

Irreverence  for  the  Deity,  or  teach 

A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgment  up 

Against  his  Maker's  will  ?— The  Polygar, 

Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compared  with  him 

Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys, 

Is  the  most  bless'd  of  men  ! — Oh  !  I  would  walk 

A  weary  journey,  to  the  furthest  verge 

Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  hand, 

Who,  in  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art. 

Preserves  a  lowly  mind  ;  and  to  his  God, 

Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness, 

Is  as  a  child  in  meek  simplicity  ! 

What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 

Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?     Even  as  the  mists 

Of  the  gray  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 

That  pass  away  and  perish. 

Earthly  things 
Are  but  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour  ; 
And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 
That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
'Tis  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud. 
Baseless  and  silly  as  the  school-boy's  dream. 
Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride. 
And  then  record  its  downfall,  what  are  they 
But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  ? 
Hath  Heaven  its  ages  ?  or  doth  Heaven  preserve 
Its  stated  eras  ^    Doth  the  Omnipotent 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  145 

Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 

There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past ; 

Throned  in  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present ; 

He  hath  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come  ; 

He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  now. 

Time  moveth  not ! — our  being  'tis  that  moves  : 

And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream, 

Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 

Ordain'd  to  chronicle  our  passing  days  ; 

So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark. 

Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 

Receding  from  his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while, 

Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 

And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 

Such,  alas  ! 
Are  the  illusions  of  this  Proteus  life  ; 
All,  all  is  false  :  through  every  phasis  still 
'Tis  shadowy  and  deceitful.     It  assumes 
The  semblances  of  things  and  specious  shapes , 
But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 
On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 
Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits, 
O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow  way. 
As  we  on  its  appearances. 

On  earth 
There  is  nor  certainty  nor  stable  hope. 
As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose  bark 
Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 
Where  Storm  and  Darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 
And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 
To  expectation  of  serener  skies, 
And  linger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death, 
Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening, 
Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage  ; 
As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 
To  permanent  delight — from  some  slight  glimpse 
Of  shadowy  unsubstantial  happiness. 

The  good  man's  hope  is  laid  far,  far  beyond 
The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 
Of  mortal  desolation. — He  beholds, 
Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 
Of  rampant  Ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 
13 


146  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Of  dark  Vicissitude. — Even  in  death. 

In  that  dread  hour,  when  with  a  giant  pang, 

Tearing  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart, 

The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free. 

Then,  even  then,  that  hope  forsakes  him  not, 

For  it  exists  beyond  the  narrow  verge 

Of  the  cold  sepulchre. — The  petty  joys 

Of  fleeting  life  indignantly  it  spurn'd, 

And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope  ; 

And  'tis  a  hope  which,  cherish'd  in  the  breast, 

Shall  not  be  disappointed. — Even  he, 

The  Holy  One — Almighty — who  elanced 

The  rolling  world  along  its  airy  way. 

Even  He  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good. 

And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats. 

Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 

Thou,  proud  man,  look  upon  yon  starry  vault. 

Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud, 

The  Night's  imperial  chariot  ; — Telescopes 

Will  show  thee  myriads  more  innumerous 

Than  the  sea  sand  ; — each  of  those  little  lamps 

Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 

Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 

Of  planets  travel,  every  planet  stock'd 

With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee. 

Now,  proud  man  !  now,  where  is  thy  greatness  fled  ^ 

What  art  thou  in  the  scale  of  universe  ? 

Less,  less  than  nothing  ! — Yet  of  thee  the  God 

Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful, 

As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 

The  leavings  of  thy  table.     And  shalt  thou 

Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 

His  heavenly  providence  !     Deluded  fool. 

Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  wing'd  with  death, 

Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  hell. 

How  insignificant  is  mortal  man. 
Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour ; 
How  poor,  how  trivial  in  the  vast  conceit 
Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space  ! 
God  of  the  universe  !     Almighty  one  ! 
Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  the  winged  winds, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  147 

Or  with  the  storm  thy  rugged  charioteer, 
Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 
Ridest  from  pole  to  pole  ;  Thou  who  dost  hold 
The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp, 
And  reinest  in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  wrath 
Goes  down  towards  erring  man,  I  would  address 
To  Thee  my  parting  poean  ;  for  of  Thee, 
Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 
Art  Time  and  Space,  sublime  Infinitude, 
Of  Thee  has  been  my  song — With  awe  I  kneel 
Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state, 
My  God  !  my  Father  ! — I  will  sing  to  Thee 
A  hyiim  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle. 
Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 
The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre, 
And  give  its  wild  strings  to  the  desert  gale. 
Rise,  Son  of  Salem  !  rise,  and  join  the  strain, 
Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp. 
And  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  thy  soul 
To  exultation.     Sing  hosanna,  sing. 
And  hallelujah,  for  the  Lord  is  great 
And  full  of  mercy  !     He  has  thought  of  man  ; 
Yea,  compass'd  round  w^th  countless  worlds,  has  thought 
Of  we  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews 
Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noon-day  sun. 
Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful  : 
He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live, 
To  rage  its  hour,  and  perish  ;  but  on  man 
He  lavish'd  immortality,  and  Heaven. 
The  eagle  falls  from  her  aerial  tower, 
And  mingles  with  irrevocable  dust : 
But  man  from  death  springs  joyful, 
Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 
Oh,  that,  insensate  of  the  favoring  boon, 
The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestow'd 
On  us  unworthy  trifles,  men  should  dare 
To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  proffer 'd  Heaven, 
And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All-Just,  to  swear 
In  wrath,  '  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest.' 
Might  I  address  the  supplicative  strain 
To  thy  high  footstool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 
•      Wouldst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers, 

And  fold  them,  .ere  they  perish,  in  thy  flock. 


148  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  Him, 
Thy  well-beloved,  who,  upon  the  cross, 
Bled  a  dead  sacrifice  for  human  sin. 
And  paid,  with  bitter  agony,  the  debt 
Of  primitive  transgression. 

Oh  !  I  shrink, 
My  very  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
That  the  time  hastens,  when  in  vengeance  clothed- 
Thou  shalt  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
On  erring  mortal  man.     Thy  chariot  wheels 
Then  shall  rebound  to  earth's  remotest  caves, 
And  stormy  Ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
At  the  appalling  summons.     Oh  !  how  dread 
On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man. 
Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom. 
Will  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  opening  Heaven ; 
When  to  the  brazen  trumpet's  deafening  roar, 
Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend. 
Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word  ! 
The  dead  shall  start  astonish 'd  from  their  sleep  ! 
The  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey. 
The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  their  charge 
Of  human  victims. — From  the  farthest  nook 
Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  their  risen  souls, 
From  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  the  waste 
Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 
Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides, 
Is  wash'd  on  some  Carribean  prominence. 
To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 
In  the  Pacific's  vast     *     *     *     realm, 
Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 
The  wilderness  of  water  ;  they  shall  come 
To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 
Thou  first  shalt  summon  the  elected  saints. 
To  their  apportion'd  Heaven  !  and  thy  Son, 
At  thy  right  hand,  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 
On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 
He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 
Then  shalt  thou  seize  the  avenging  cimeter, 
And,  with  a  roar  as  loud  and  horrible 
As  the  stern  earthquake's  monitory  voice, 
The  wicked  shall  be  driven  to  their  abode, 
Down  the  immitigable  gulf,  to  wail 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  149 

And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 

***** 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard. — Spirit,  rear 

Thy  flag  on  high  ! — Invincible,  and  throned 

In  unparticipated  might.     Behold 

Earth's  proudest  boasts,  beneath  thy  silent  sway, 

Sweep  headlong  to  destruction,  thou  the  while, 

Unmoved  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rush 

Of  mighty  generations,  as  they  pass 

To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 

Thy  signet  on  them,  and  they  rise  no  more. 

Who  shall  contend  with  Time— unvanquish'd  Time, 

The  conqueror  of  conquerors,  and  lord 

Of  desolation  ?— Lo  !  the  shadows  fly. 

The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries, 

They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 

The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 

Heard'st  thou  that  shout }     It  rent  the  vaulted  skies  ; 

It  was  the  voice  of  people, — mighty  crowds, — 

Again  !  'tis  hush'd — Time  speaks,  and  all  is  hush'd  ; 

In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 

Unruffled  solitude.     They  all  are  still ; 

All — yea,  the  whole — the  incalculable  mass, 

Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard.— Spirit,  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high  !  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 
But  do  thou  know  the  season  yet  shall  come, 
When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 
Shall  tumble  ;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike, 
Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power ; 
When  saints  shall  shout,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 
Yea,  he  doth  come — the  mighty  champion  comes, 
Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death-wound, 
Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors. 
And  desolate  stern  Desolation's  lord. 
Lo  !  where  he  cometh  !  the  Messiah  comes  ! 
The  King  !  the  Comforter  !  the  Christ !— He  comes 
To  burst  the  bonds  of  death,  and  overturn 
The  power  of  Time. — Hark  !  the  trumpet's  blast 
Rings  o'er  the  heavens  !     They  rise,  the  myriads  rise — 
Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the  chains 
Of  torpor — He  has  ransom'd  them,     *      *     * 
13* 


150  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Forgotten  generations  live  again, 
Assume  the  bodily  shapes  they  own'd  of  old, 
Beyond  the  flood  : — the  righteous  of  their  times 
Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 
The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and  in  her  lap 
Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave, 
And  'heritor  with  her  of  Heaven, — a  flower 
Wash'd  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 
Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud. 
And,  hark !  those  strains,  how  solemnly  serene 
They  fall,  as  from  the  skies — at  distance  fall — 
Again  more  loud — The  hallelujah's  swell ; 
The  newly-risen  catch  the  joyful  sound  ; 
They  glow,  they  burn  ;  and  now  with  one  accord 
Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  mouth  the  song 
Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 
Who  bled  for  mortals. 


Yet  there  is  peace  for  man. — Yea,  there  is  peace 

Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene  ; 

When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far, 

Haply  he  may  be  set  ( in  his  late  walk 

O'ertaken  with  deep  thought)  beneath  the  boughs 

Of  honey-suckle,  when  the  sun  is  gone. 

And  with  fix'd  eye,  and  wistful,  he  surveys 

The  solemn  shadows  of  the  Heavens  sail. 

And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Time 

Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose, 

Far  from  the  unquietness  of  life — from  noise 

And  tumult  far— beyond  the  flying  clouds, 

Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene. 

Where  change  shall  cease,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 


POEMS. 


CHILDHOOD: 
A  POEM. 


This  appears  to  be  one  of  the  Author's  earliest  productions :  written  when  about  the 
age  of  14. 


PART  I. 

Pictured  in  memory's  mellowing  glass  how  sweet 

Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys  to  greet ; 

To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherish 'd  scene, 

The  village  church-yard,  and  the  village-green, 

The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  greenwood  glade,         5 

The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn's  shade. 

The  white-wash'd  cottage,  where  the  woodbine  grew, 

And  all  the  favorite  haunts  our  childhood  knew  ! 

How  sweet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze, 

To  view  th'  unclouded  skies  of  former  days  !  10 

Beloved  age  of  innocence  and  smiles. 

When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles. 

When  the  gay  heart,  to  life's  sweet  day-spring  true. 

Still  finds  some  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 

Bless'd  Childhood,  hail !— Thee  simply  will  I  sing,        15 

And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring ; 

These  long-lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore. 

Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure  now  no  more, 

And  every  stump  familiar  to  my  sight 

Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight.  20 

This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favorite  seat ; 
Here  did  I  love  at  evening  to  retreat, 


152  COMPLETE    WORKS 

And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 

Hesper,  aspiring,  show'd  his  golden  light. 

Here  once  again,  remote  from  human  noise,  25 

I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  former  joys  ; 

Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasured  scene,  once  more. 

And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore. 

While  as  each  grove  and  lawn  I  recognise, 

My  melted  soul  suffuses  in  my  eyes.  30 

And  oh  !  thou  Power,  whose  myriad  trains  resort 

To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought ; 

Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye, 

Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrow'd  gleam  of  joy  ; 

Bless'd  memory,  guide,  with  finger  nicely  true,  35 

Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view  ; 

Recall  with  faithful  vigor  to  my  mind, 

Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind  ; 

And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford. 

Whose  general  outline  in  my  heart  is  stored.  40 

In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls, 

In  many  a  fold  the  mantling  woodbine  falls. 

The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school, 

Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule  ; 

Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien  ;  45 

Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean  : 

Her  neatly  border'd  cap,  as  lily  fair, 

Beneath  her  chin  was  pinn'd  with  decent  care  ; 

And  pendent  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn, 

Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn.  50 

Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grown  her  eyes, 

A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies  ; 

These  does  she  guard  secure  in  leathern  case. 

From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 

Here  first  I  enter'd,  though  with  toil  and  pain,  55 

The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane  ; 
Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 
Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display. 
Much  did  I  grieve,  on  that  ill-fated  morn. 
While  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne  :  60 

Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  try'd 
To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sigh'd  ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  153 

And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I  wept, 

To  my  lone  corner  broken-hearted  crept, 

And  thought  of  tender  home,  where  anger  never  kept.  65 

But  soon  inured  to  alphabetic  toils. 

Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles  ; 

First  at  the  form,  my  task  forever  true, 

A  little  favorite  rapidly  I  grew  : 

And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight^  70 

Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 

And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise^ 

Talk'd  of  the  honors  of  my  future  days. 

Oh  !  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 

Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought ;  ^75 

Could  she  have  seen  me  when  revolving  years 

Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears, 

Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 

Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state  ; 

Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife,       80 

Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  life. 

Where,  in  the  busy  scene,  by  peace  unbless'd, 

Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest .'' 

A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main. 

Without  a  hope,  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain  ;  85 

Long  toss'd  by  tempest  o'er  the  world's  wide  shore, 

When  shall  his  spirit  rest  to  toil  no  more  ? 

Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 

The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  grave. 

Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn,  from  life's  alarms,  90 

Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms, — 

Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 

And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 

Sweet  reign  of  innocence  when  no  crime  defiles, 

But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles ;  95 

When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  sight, 

But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmix'd  delight  ; 

To  thee  I  turn,  from  riot  and  from  noise, 

Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor,  100 

When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labor  o'er. 


154  COMPLETE    WORKS 

What  clamorous  throngs,  what  happy  groups  were  seen, 

In  various  postures  scatt'ring  o'er  the  green  ! 

Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 

Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race  ;  105 

While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass, 

With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 

Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 

A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  with  pride  we  march 'd  ; 

For  banners,  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind  110 

Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind  ; 

And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead, 

And  guns  and  spears  we  made  of  brittle  reed ; 

Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown. 

We  storm 'd  some  ruin'd  pig-sty  for  a  town.  115 

Pleased  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 

To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front. 

And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 

To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  geer. 

Still  as  she  look'd,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round,      120 

With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 

When  tired  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side 

(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide) — 

And  wonder  at  her  skill — well  known  to  fame — 

For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame  ?      125 

Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  showed  with  pride 

To  strangers,  still  her  thriftness  testified  ; 

Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much  in  troth, 

How  'twas  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 

Oft  would  we  leave,  though  well-beloved,  our  play,  130 

To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 

Many's  the  time  I've  scamper'd  down  the  glade. 

To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 

Wiich  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing. 

While  we  around  her  form'd  a  little  ring  :  135 

She  told  of  innocence  foredoom'd  to  bleed. 

Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed. 

Or  little  children  murder'd  as  they  slept  ; 

While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 

Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we,  140 

Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be. 

Poor  simple  wights,  ah  !  little  did  we  ween 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  155 

The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene  ! 
Ah,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know, 
This  world  's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  wo  !  145 

Beloved  moment !  then  'twas  first  I  caught 

The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought ; 

Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear, 

Then  first  that  poesy  charm 'd  mine  infant  ear. 

Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore,  150 

The  sports  of  Childhood  charm'd  my  soul  no  more. 

Far  from  the  scene  of  gayety  and  noise. 

Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 

I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'er-arching  shade, 

And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid,  155 

While  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran. 

The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan  ; 

Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air. 

To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there.       159 


PART  II. 

There  are,  who  think  that  childhood  does  not  share 
With  age  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup  of  care  : 
Alas  !  they  know  not  this  unhappy  truth. 
That  every  age,  and  rank,  is  born  to  ruth. 

From  the  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind,  5 

Man  is  foredoom'd  the  thorns  of  grief  to  find  ; 

At  every  step  has  farther  cause  to  know. 

The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dash'd  with  wo. 

Yet  in  the  youthful  breast  forever  caught 

With  some  new  object  for  romantic  thought,  10 

The  impression  of  the  moment  quickly  fhes. 

And  with  the  morrow  every  sorrow  dies. 

How  different  manhood  ! — then  does  Thought's  control 

Sink  every  pang  still  deeper  in  the  soul  ; 

Then  keen  Affliction's  sad  unceasing  smart  15 


156  COMPLETE.  WORKS. 

Becomes  a  painful  resident  in  the  heart ; 

And  Care,  whom  not  the  gayest  can  outbrave, 

Pursues  its  feeble  victim  to  the  grave. 

Then,  as  each  long-known  friend  is  summon 'd  hence, 

We  feel  a  void  no  joy  can  recompense,  20 

And  as  we  weep  o'er  every  new-made  tomb, 

Wish  that  ourselves  the  next  may  meet  our  doom. 

Yes,  Childhood,  thee  no  rankling  woes  pursue, 

No  forms  of  future  ill  salute  thy  view, 

No  pangs  repentant  bid  thee  wake  to  weep,  25 

But  halcyon  peace  protects  thy  downy  sleep. 

And  sanguine  Hope,  through  every  storm  of  life, 

Shoots  her  bright  beams,  and  calms  the  internal  strife. 

Yet  even  round  childhood's  heart,  a  thoughtless  shrine. 

Affection's  little  thread  will  ever  twine  ;  30 

And  though  but  frail  may  seem  each  tender  tie. 

The  soul  foregoes  them  but  with  many  a  sigh. 

Thus,  when  the  long-expected  moment  came. 

When  forced  to  leave  the  gentle-hearted  dame. 

Reluctant  throbbings  rose  within  my  breast,  35 

And  a  still  tear  my  silent  grief  express'd 

When  to  the  public  school  compelled  to  go, 

What  novel  scenes  did  on  my  senses  flow  ! 

There  in  each  breast  each  active  power  dilates, 

Which  broils  whole  nations,  and  convulses  states  ;      40 

There  reigns  by  turns  alternate,  love  and  hate, 

Ambition  burns,  and  factious  rebels  prate  ; 

And  in  a  smaller  range,  a  smaller  sphere. 

The  dark  deformities  of  man  appear. 

Yet  there  the  gentler  virtues  kindred  claim,  45 

There  Friendship  lights  her  pure  untainted  flame. 

There  mild  Benevolence  delights  to  dwell. 

And  sweet  Contentment  rests  without  her  cell  ; 

And  there,  'mid  many  a  stormy  soul,  we  find 

The  good  of  heart,  the  intelligent  of  mind.  50 

'Twas  there,  0,  George  !  with  thee  I  learn'd  to  join 

In  Friendship's  bands — in  amity  divine. 

Oh,  mournful  thought ! — Where  is  thy  spirit  now  ? 

As  here  I  sit  on  favorite  Logar's  brow. 

And  trace  below  each  well-remember'd  glade,  55 

Where  arm  in  arm,  erewhile  with  thee  I  stray'd. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  157 

Where  art  thou  laid — on  what  untrodden  shore, 

Where  nought  is  heard  save  ocean's  sullen  roar, 

Dost  thou  in  lowly,  unlamented  state, 

At  last  repose  from  all  the  storms  of  fate  ?  60 

Methinks  I  see  thee  struggling  with  the  wave, 

Without  one  aiding  hand  stretch'd  out  to  save  ; 

See  thee  convulsed,  thy  looks  to  heaven  bend. 

And  send  thy  parting  sigh  unto  thy  friend ; 

Or  where  immeasurable  wilds  dismay,  65 

Forlorn  and  sad  thou  bend'st  thy  weary  way, 

While  sorrow  and  disease  with  anguish  rife. 

Consume  apace  the  ebbing  springs  of  hfe. 

Again  I  see  his  door  against  thee  shut. 

The  unfeeling  native  furn  thee  from  his  hut  ;  70 

I  see  thee  spent  with  toil  and  worn  with  grief, 

Sit  on  the  grass,  and  wish  the  long'd  relief ; 

Then  lie  thee  down,  the  stormy  struggle  o'er, 

Think  on  thy  native  land — and  rise  no  more  ! 

Oh  !  that  thou  couldst,  from  thine  august  abode,  75 

Survey  thy  friend  in  life's  dismaying  road. 

That  thou  couldst  see  him  at  this  moment  here, 

Embalm  thy  memory  with  a  pious  tear. 

And  hover  o'er  him  as  he  gazes  round, 

Where  all  the  scenes  of  infant  joys  surround.  80 

Yes  !  yes  !  his  spirit's  near  ! — The  whispering  breeze 
Conveys  his  voice  sad  sighing  on  the  trees  ; 
And  lo  !  his  form  transparent  I  perceive, 
Borne  on  the  gray  mist  of  the  sullen  eve  : 
He  hovers  near,  clad  in  the  night's  dim  robe,  85 

While  deathly  silence  reigns  upon  the  globe. 
Yet  ah  !  whence  comes  this  visionary  scene  P 
'Tis  Fancy's  wild  aerial  dream  I  ween  ; 
By  her  inspired,  when  reason  takes  its  flight. 
What  fond  illusions  beam  upon  the  sight !  90 

She  waves  her  hand,  and  lo  !  what  forms  appear  ! 
What  magic  sounds  salute  the  wondering  ear  ! 
Once  more  o'er  distant  regions  do  we  tread. 
And  the  cold  grave  yields  up  its  cherish 'd  dead  ; 
Wliile  present  sorrow  's  banish 'd  far  away,  95 

Unclouded  azure  gilds  the  placid  day, 
14 


158  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Or  in  the  future's  cloud-encircled  face, 

Fair  scenes  of  bliss  to  come  we  fondly  trace, 

And  draw  minutely  every  little  wile, 

Which  shall  the  feathery  hours  of  time  beguile.  100 

So  when  forlorn,  and  lonesome  at  her  gate, 

The  Royal  Mary  solitary  sat, 

And  view'd  the  moon-beam  trembling  on  the  wave. 

And  heard  the  hollow  surge  her  prison  lave, 

Towards  France's  distant  coast  she  bent  her  sight,    105 

For  there  her  soul  had  wing'd  its  longing  flight ; 

There  did  she  form  full  many  a  scheme  of  joy. 

Visions  of  bliss  unclouded  with  alloy. 

Which  bright  through  Hope's  deceitful  optics  beam'd, 

And  all  became  the  surety  which  it  seem'd  ;  110 

She  wept,  yet  felt,  while  all  within  was  calm. 

In  every  tear  a  melancholy  charm. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep, 

Just  yield  a  scanty  sust'nance  to  the  sheep, 

With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped,  115 

To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed  ; 

To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  morn, 

Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn. 

And  taste  delighted  of  superior  joys. 

Beheld  through  Sympathy's  enchanted  eyes  :  120 

With  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd 

The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strew'd ; 

The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade. 

Round  which  the  silvery  sunbeam  glancing  play'd. 

And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne,  125 

Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone  ; 

We  mark'd  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay. 

Reviving  Nature,  hail'd  returning  day  ; 

Mark'd  how  the  flowerets  rear'd  their  drooping  heads. 

And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads,  130 

While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 

The  birds  sung  pasans  to  the  source  of  light :      . 

Oft  have  we  watch 'd  the  speckled  lark  arise. 

Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies. 

And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pain'd  sight  no  more  135 

Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour  5 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


159 


Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 

Came  wafted  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along ; 

And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 

Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  "cot,  140 

Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 

Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave, 

We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day, 

And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 

At  sultry  noon  too,  when  our  toils  were  done,  145 

We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run  ; 

There  on  the  turf  we  lay,  while  at  our  feet 

The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet : 

And  mused  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore. 

Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more  ;  ^  150 

Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept. 

Sung  wo  unto  the  wicked  land — and  wept  ; 

Or,  fancy-led — saw  Jeremiah  mourn 

In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea's  urn. 

Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove,  155 

With  Plato  talk  in  his  Ilyssian  grove  ; 

Or,  wandering  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose, 

Weep  once  again  o'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 

Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band. 

The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land —  160 

Chivalric  Britomart,  and  Una  fair. 

And  courteous  Constance,  doom'd  to  dark  despair, 

By  turns  our  thoughts  engaged  ;  and  oft  we  talk'd,        / 

Of  times  when  monarch  superstition  stalk'd  ; 

And  when  the  blood-fraught  galliots  of  Rome  165 

Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom  : 

While,  where  the  wood-himg  Meinai's  waters  flow, 

The  hoary  harpers  pour'd  the  strain  of  wo. 

While  thus  employ'd,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell 

Which  summon'd  us  to  school !  'Twas  Fancy's  knell,  170 

And,  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear. 

It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 

Yet  even  then,(  for  oh  !  what  chains  can  bind. 

What  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind  !) 

Even  then  we  soar'd  to  many  a  height  sublime,  175 

And  many  a  day-dream  charra'd  the  lazy  time. 


ICO  COMPLETE    WORKS 

At  evening  too,  how  pleasing  was  our  walk, 

Endear 'd  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk, 

When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way, 

To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day  ;  180 

How  calm  was  all  around  !  no  playful  iDreeze 

Sigh'd  'mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees, 

But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song, 

The  gray-fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along ; 

And  save  when,  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee, 

The  distant  church-bells'  mellow  harmony  ;  186 

The  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook. 

That  'mid  the  tufted  broom  its  still  course  took ; 

The  rugged  arch,  that  clasp'd  its  silent  tides. 

With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides:  190 

The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight ; 

The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight ; 

All,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 

We  loved  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  high, 

In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky  ;  195 

Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  color'd  pride 

Was  scatter'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide. 

And  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade. 

To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  convey'd. 

In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace,  200 

While  Fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space  ! 

Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car, 

Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 

Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 

In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky —  205 

Or  saw,  wide  stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 

A  ridge  of  glaciers  in  mural  white. 

Hugely  terrific. — But  those  times  are  o'er. 

And  the  fond  scene  can  charm  mine  eyes  no  more ; 

For  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  below,  210 

Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  wo. 

The  scene  is  o'er— still  seasons  onward  roll, 

And  each  revolve  conducts  me  toward  the  goal ; 

Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief, 

One  endless  continuity  of  grief ;  ^  215 

And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime. 

Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  161 

Toil  on,  toil  on,  ye  busy  crowds,  that  pant 

For  hoards  of  wealth  which  ye  will  never  want : 

And,  lost  to  all  but  gain,  with  ease  resign  220 

The  calms  of  peace  and  happiness  divine  ! 

Far  other  cares  be  mine — Men  little  crave 

In  this  short  journey  to  the  silent  grave  ; 

And  the  poor  peasant,  bless'd  with  peace  and  health, 

I  envy  more  than  Croesus  with  his  wealth.  225 

Yet  grieve  not  I,  that  Fate  did  not  decree 

Paternal  acres  to  await  on  me  ; 

She  gave  me  more,  she  placed  within  my  breast 

A  heart  with  little  pleased — with  little  bless'd  : 

I  look  around  me,  where,  on  every  side,  2S0 

Extensive  manors  spread  in  wealthy  pride  ; 

And  could  my  sight  be  borne  to  either  zone, 

I  should  not  find  one  foot  of  land  my  own. 

But  whither  do  I  wander  ?  shall  the  muse, 

For  golden  baits,  her  simple  theme  refuse  ^  235 

Oh,  no  !  but  while  the  weary  spirit  greets 

The  fading  scenes  of  childhood's  far-gone  sweets. 

It  catches  all  the  infant's  wandering  tongue, 

And  prattles  on  in  desultory  song. 

That  song  must  close — the  gloomy  mists  of  night       240 

Obscure  the  pale  stars'  visionary  light. 

And  ebon  darkness,  clad  in  vapory  wet. 

Steals  on  the  welkin  in  primeval  jet. 

The  song  must  close. — Once  more  my  adverse  lot 
Leads  me  reluctant  from  this  cherish 'd  spot :  245 

Again  compels  to  plunge  in  busy  life, 
And  brave  the  hateful  turbulence  of  strife. 

Scenes  of  my  youth — ere  my  unwilling  feet 
Are  turn'd  forever  from  this  loved  retreat, 
Ere  on  these  fields,  with  plenty  covered  o'er,  550 

My  eyes  are  closed  to  ope  on  them  no  more. 
Let  me  ejaculate,  to  feeling  due. 
One  long,  one  last  affectionate  adieu. 
Grant  that,  if  ever  Providence  should  please 
To  give  me  an  old  age  of  peace  and  ease,  255 

Grant  that,  in  these  sequester'd  shades,  my  days 
14* 


162  COMPLETE    WORKS 

May  wear  away  in  gradual  decays  ; 

And  oh  !  ye  spirits,  who  unbodied  play, 

Unseen  upon  the  pinions  of  the  day, 

Kind  genii  of  my  native  fields  benign,  260 

Who  were  *  *  *  * 


FRAGMENT 


ECCEJVTRIC    DRAMA, 

WRITTEN  AT  A  VERY  EARiiY  AGE. 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVES. 
1. 

Ding-dong  !  ding-dong  ! 
Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells, 

Ding-dong  !  ding-dong  ! 
Over  the  heath,  over  the  moor,  and  over  the  dale, 

'  Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar,' 
Dance,  dance  away  the  jocund  roundelay  ! 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  calls  us  away. 

2. 

Round  the  oak,  and  round  the  elm, 

Merrily  foot  it  o'er  the  ground  ! 
The  sentry  ghost  it  stands  aloof. 
So  merrily,  merrily  foot  it  round. 
Ding-dong  !  ding-dong  ! 
Merry,  merry  go  the  bells 
Swelhng  in  the  nightly  gale, 
The  sentry  ghost, 
It  keeps  its  post. 
And  soon,  and  soon  our  sports  must  fail  : 
But  let  us  trip  the  nightly  ground. 
While  the  merry,  merry  bells  ring  round. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


163 


3. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  death-watch  ticks  ! 
See,  see,  the  winding-sheet ! 

Our  dance  is  done, 

Our  race  is  run, 
And  we  must  lie  at  the  alder's  feet ! 

Ding-dong,  ding-dong. 

Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 
Swinging  o'er  the  weltering  wave  ! 

And  we  must  seek 

Our  death-beds  bleak, 
Where  the  green  sod  grows  upon  the  grave. 

[They  vanish— The  Goddess  of  Consumption  descends,  habited  in  a  sky-bUie  Robe, 
attended  by  mournful  Music] 

Come,  Melancholy,  sister  mine. 

Cold  the  dews,  and  chill  the  night  ! 
Come  from  thy  dreary  shrine  ! 

The  wan  moon  climbs  the  heavenly  height, 

And  underneath  the  sickly  ray, 

Troops  of  squalid  spectres  play, 

And  the  dying  mortals'  groan 

Startles  the  night  on  her  dusky  throne. 

Come,  come,  sister  mine  ! 

Gliding  on  the  pale  moon-shine : 
We'll  ride  at  ease, 
On  the  tainted  breeze, 

And  oh  !  our  sport  will  be  divine. 

[The  Goddess  of  Melanclioly  advances  out  of  a  deep  Glen  in  the  rear,  habited  in 
■      Black,  and  covered  with  a  thick  Veil. — She  speaks.] 

Sister  from  my  dark  abode, 

Where  nests  the  raven,  sits  the  toad, 

Hither  I  come,  at  thy  command  : 

Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 

Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 

I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 

Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me. 

Come,  let  us  speed  our  way 

Where  the  troops  of  spectres  play  ; 

To  charnel-houses,  church-yards  drear. 


164  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Where  Death  sits  with  a  horrible  leer, 
A  lasting-  g-rin,  on  a  throne  of  bones, 
And  skim  along  the  blue  tomb-stones. 

Come,  let  us  speed  away, 
Lay  our  snares,  and  spread  our  tether  ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me ; 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave. 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come,  let  us  speed  our  way  ! 
Join  our  hands,  and  spread  our  tether  ! 
I  will  furnish  food  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  smooth  the  way  for  me  ; 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave. 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist,  sister,  hist !  who  comes  here  ? 
Oh  !  I  know  her  by  that  tear. 
By  that  blue  eye's  languid  glare, 
By  her  skin,  and  by  her  hair  : 

She  is  mine, 

And  she  is  thine, 
Now  the  deadliest  draught  prepare. 

CONSUMPTION. 

In  the  dismal  night  air  dress'd, 
I  will  creep  into  her  breast  : 
Flush  her  cheek,  and  bleach  her  skin, 
And  feed  on  the  vital  fire  within. 
Lover,  do  not  trust  her  eyes, — 
When  they  sparkle  most,  she  dies  ! 
Mother,  do  not  trust  her  breath, — 
Comfort  she  will  breathe  in  death  ! 
Father,  do  not  strive  to  save  her, — 
She  is  mine,  and  I  must  have  her  ! 
The  coffin  must  be  her  bridal  bed  ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  165 

The  winding-sheet  must  wrap  her  head  ; 
The  whispering  winds  must  o'er  her  sigh, 
For  soon  in  the  grave  the  maid  must  lie, 

The  worm  it  will  riot 

On  heavenly  diet, 
When  death  has  deflour'd  her  eye. 

[  They  vanish, 

[While  CoKsuMPTioN  speaks,  Angelina  enters.] 
ANGELINA. 

With*  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 

Dost  thou,  wan  Moon  !  upon  thy  way  advance 

In  the  blue  welkin's  vault  ! — Pale  wanderer  ! 

Hast  thou  too  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 

That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace. 

Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ^ 

Has  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  boy,  forsook 

Thy  widow'd  breast — on  which  the  spoiler  oft 

Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 

Fantastic  pillow'd  thee,  and  the  dim  night, 

Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurtain'd  round 

With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch  ^ — Wan  traveller, 

How  like  thy  fate  to  mine  ! — Yet  I  have  still 

One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack'st ; 

My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  in  the  grave 

Of  kind  forgetfalness  : — my  journey  here. 

Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless,  and  forlorn, 

Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 

Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 

But  thou,  unhappy  Queen  !  art  doom'd  to  trace 

Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms  of  night. 

While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 

The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  time  ; 

Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 

To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 

0  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 
Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  frail  withal, 

*  With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon  !  thou  climb'st  the  skies, 
How  silently  and  with  how  wan  a  face ' 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 


166  COMPLETE    WORKS 

That  when  possess'd,  it  is  but  lessen'cl  grief; 

And  even  then  there's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 

That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  life, 

But  bears  it  from  the  view. — Oh  !  who  would  shun 

The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 

The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave, 

And  yet  endure  the  various  ills  of  life, 

And  dark  vicissitudes  ! — Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel, 

And  am  assured,  that  I  shall  lay  my  head, 

My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest, 

And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 

Will  flourish  sweetly. — And  then  they  will  weep 

That  one  so  young,  and  what  they're  pleased  to  call 

So  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon — And  tell 

How  painful  Disappointment's  canker'd  fang 

Wither'd  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek. 

Oh,  foolish  ones  !  why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly. 

Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 

Might  envy  me  my  rest ! — And  as  for  them. 

Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy. 

May  thus  remembrance  me — they  must  themselves 

Successive  fall. 

Around  the  winter  fire 
(  When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals, 
And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 
Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 
His  graceful  evolutions )  they  not  long 
Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times,  and  feats 
Of  early  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one. 
Shall  drop  into  their  shrouds. — Some,  in  their  age, 
Ripe  for  the  sickle  ;  others  young,  like  me, 
And  falling  green  beneath  th'  untimely  stroke. 
Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  church-yard  forlorn. 
Where  I  shall  lie,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down, 
And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 
And  oh  !  thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth. 
Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 
Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse. 
And  say  that  I  was  gentle,  and  deserved 
A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 
All,  all  thy  wrongs  ; — and  then  do  thou  forget 
The  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  bless'd 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  167 

As  wish  can  make  thee — Laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
With  thy  dear  choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 

Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step. — In  this  dark  wood —   * 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

Written  at  a  very  early  age. 

I've  read,  my  friend,  of  Dioclesian, 

And  many  other  noble  Grecian, 

Who  wealth  and  palaces  resign'd, 

In  cots  the  joys  of  peace  to  find  ; 

Maximian's  meal  of  turnip-tops, 

(Disgusting  food  to  dainty  chops,) 

I've  also  read  of,  without  wonder ; 

But  such  a  curs'd  egregious  blunder, 

As  that  a  man  of  wit  and  sense. 

Should  leave  his  books  to  hoard  up  pence,- 

Forsake  the  loved  Aonian  maids. 

For  all  the  petty  tricks  of  trades, 

I  never,  either  now,  or  long  since, 

Have  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  nonsense  • 

That  one  who  learning's  joys  hath  felt, 

And  at  the  Muse's  altar  knelt. 

Should  leave  a  life  of  sacred  leisure, 

To  taste  the  accumulating  pleasure  ; 

And,  metamorphosed  to  an  alley  duck, 

Grovel  in  loads  of  kindred  muck. 

Oh  !  'tis  beyond  my  comprehension  ! 

A  courtior  throwing  up  his  pension, — 

A  lawyer  working  without  a  fee, — 

A  parson  giving  charity, — 

A  truly  pious  methodist  preacher, — 

Are  not,  egad,  so  out  of  nature. 

Had  nature  made  thee  half  a  fool, 

But  given  thee  wit  to  keep  a  school, 

I  had  not  stared  at  thy  backsliding  : 

Rut  when  thy  wit  I  can  confide  in, 


168  COMPLETE    WORKS 

When  well  I  know  thy  just  pretence 

To  solid  and  exalted  sense  ; 

When  well  I  know  that  on  thy  head 

Philosophy  her  lights  hath  shed, 

I  stand  aghast !  thy  virtues  sum  too, 

And  wonder  what  this  world  will  come  to  ! 

Yet,  whence  this  strain  ?  shall  I  repine 
That  thou  alone  dost  singly  shine  ? 
Shall  I  lament  that  thou  alone. 
Of  men  of  parts,  hast  prudence  known  ? 


LINES 

ON  READING  THE  POEMS  OF  WARTON* 

Age  fourteen. 

Oh,  Warton  !  to  thy  soothing  shell. 
Stretch 'd  remote  in  hermit  cell, 
Where  the  brook  runs  babbling  by, 
Forever  I  could  listening  lie  ; 
And,  catching  all  the  Muse's  fire, 
Hold  converse  with  the  tuneful  quire. 

What  pleasing  themes  thy  page  adorn, 
The  ruddy  streaks  of  cheerful  morn, 
The  pastoral  pipe,  the  ode  sublime, 
And  Melancholy's  mournful  chime  ! 
Each  with  unwonted  graces  shines 
In  thy  ever-lovely  lines. 

Thy  Muse  deserves  the  lasting  meed  ; 
Attunini?  sweet  the  Dorian  reed. 
Now  the  love-lorn  swain  complams, 
And  sings  his  sorrows  to  the  plains  ; 
Now  the  Sylvan  scenes  appear 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year; 
Or  the  elegiac  strain 
Softly  sings  of  mental  pain, 


169 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

And  mournful  diapasons  sail 
On  the  faintly-dying  gale. 

But,  ah  !  the  soothing  scene  is  o'er  ! 

On  middle  flight  we  cease  to  soar, 
For  now  the  Muse  assumes  a  bolder  sweep, 
Strikes  on  the  lyric  string  her  sorrows  deep, 

In  strains  unheard  before. 
Now,  now  the  rising  fire  thrills  high, 
Now,  now  to  heaven's  high  realms  we  ily, 

And  every  throne  explore  ; 
The  soul  entranced,  on  mighty  wings, 
With  all  the  poet's  heat,  upsprings, 

And  loses  earthly  woes  ; 
Till  all  alarm'd  at  the  giddy  height, 
The  Muse  descends  on  gentler  flight, 

And  lulls  the  wearied  soul  to  soft  repose. 


TO  THE  MUSE. 

Written  at  the  age  of  foiuteen. 


Ill-fated  maid,  in  whose  unhappy  train 
Chill  poverty  and  misery  are  seen. 

Anguish  and  discontent,  the  unhappy  bane 
Of  life,  and  blackener  of  each  brighter  scene. 

Why  to  thy  votaries  dost  thou  give  to  feel 
So  keenly  all  the  scorns— the  jeers  of  life  ? 
Why  not  endow  them  to  endure  the  strife 

With  apathy's  invulnerable  steel. 

Of  self-content  and  ease,  each  torturing  wound  to  heal : 

II. 

Ah  !  who  would  taste  your  self-deluding  joys, 
That  lure  the  unwary  to  a  wretched  doom. 

That  bid  fair  views  and  flattering  hopes  arise. 
Then  hurl  them  headlong  to  a  lasting  tomb  ? 

What  is  the  charm  which  leads  thy  victims  on 
15 


170  COMPLETE    WORKS 

To  persevere  ia  paths  that  lead  to  wo  ? 

What  can  induce  them  in  that  rout  to  go, 
In  which  innumerous  before  have  gone, 
And  died  in  misery,  poor  and  wo-begone. 

III. 

Yet  can  I  ask  what  charms  in  thee  are  found ; 
I,  who  have  drank  from  thine  ethereal  rill, 

And  tasted  all  the  pleasures  that  abound 
Upon  Parnassus'  loved  Aonian  hill  ? 

I,  through  whose  soul  the  Muses'  strains  aye  thrill ! 
Oh  !  I  do  feel  the  spell  with  which  I'm  tied  ; 

And  though  our  annals  fearful  stories  tell. 
How  Savage  languisli'd,  and  how  Otway  died, 
Yet  must  I  persevere,  let  whate'er  will  betide. 


TO   LOVE. 


I. 


Why  should  I  blush  to  own  I  love  ? 
'Tis  Love  that  rules  the  realms  above. 
Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all, 
That  Virtue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall  ? 

II. 

Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade. 
Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betray'd  ? 
Why  the  stern  brow  deceitful  move. 
When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 

Ill 

Is  it  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
On  passion  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove  ! 
'Tis  painful,  though  'tis  sweet,  to  love. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

THE  WANDERING  BOY. 

A  SONG. 
I. 

When  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild  moor, 
And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door  ; 
When  the  chilling  tear  stands  in  my  comfortless  eye, 
Oh,  how  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  Wandering  Boy  ! 

II. 

The  winter  is  cold,  and  I  have  no  vest, 
And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast ; 
No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  I, 
For  I  am  a  parentless  Wandering  Boy. 

III. 

Yet  I  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 
A  mother  who  granted  each  infant  desire  ; 
Our  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embower'd  vale. 
Where  the  ring-dove  would  warble  its  sorrowful  tale. 

But  my  father  and  mother  were  summon'd  away. 
And  they  left  me  to  hard-hearted  strangers  a  prey  ; 
I  fled  from  their  rigor  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  now  I'm  a  poor  little  Wandering  Boy. 

V. 

The  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale, 
And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale  ; 
I'll  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie. 
And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  Wandering  Boy. 


171 


FRAGMENT. 

-The  western  gale. 


Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love. 

Plays  round  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolved, 


nS  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Beneath  the  ancient  ehn's  fantastic  shade 
I  he,  exhausted  with  the  noontide  heat : 
While  ripphng  o'er  his  deep-worn  pebble  bed, 
The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet, 
Dispensing"  coolness. — On  the  fringed  marge 
Full  many  a  floweret  rears  its  head, — or  pink, 
Or  gaudy  daffodil. — 'Tis  here,  at  noon, 
The  buskin'd  wood-nymphs  from  the  heat  retire, 
And  lave  them  in  the  fountain  ;  here  secure 
From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport  • 
Or  stretch'd  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 
Lull'd  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 
Invoke  the  God  of  slumber.     *     *     * 


And,  hark  !  how  merrily,  from  distant  tower. 
Ring  round  the  village  bells  !  now  on  the  gale 
They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud; 
Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear, 
Melting  in  faintest  music. — They  bespeak 
A  day  of  Jubilee,  and  oft  they  bear, 
Commix'd  along  the  unfrequented  shore, 
The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud. 
Startling  the  musing  ear  of  Solitude. 

Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Whitsuntide. 
When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld  ! 
Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols. — All  the  day 
The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance 
On  the  smooth-shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries  ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 
They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  laboring  moon. 
Or  draw  the  fix'd  stars  from  their  eminence. 
And  still  the  midnight  tempest. — Then  anon 
Tell  of  uncharnell'd  spectres,  seen  to  glide 
Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path, 
Startling  the  'nigh ted  traveller  ;  while  the  sound 
Of  undistingiiish'd  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
From  the  dark  centre  of  the  deep'ning  glen, 
Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


173 


Oh,  Ignorance  1 
Thou  art  fall'n  man's  best  friend  !     With  thee  he  speeds 
In  frigid  apathy  along  his  way, 
And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 
Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek  ;  or  the  keen  steel 
Of  wounded  feeUng  penetrate  his  breast. 

Even  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank, 

I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happiness 

Which  sense  refined  affords — Even  now,  my  heart 

Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world. 

Throw  off  these  garments,  and  in  shepherd's  weeds. 

With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed. 

To  sojourn  in  the  woodland.— Then  my  thought 

Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss, 

That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite, 

And  trespass  on  my  judgment. 

Such  is  life  : 
The  distant  prospect  always  seems  more  fair, 
And  when  attain'd,  another  still  succeeds, 
Far  fairer  than  before, — yet  compass'd  round 
With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay. 
And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze, 
Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
Of  unsubstantial  Happiness,  to  find, 
When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
'Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN  ON  WHIT-MONDAY. 

Hark  !  how  the  merry  bells  ring  jocund  round, 
And  now  they  die  upon  the  veering  breeze ; 

Anon  they  thunder  loud 

Full  on  the  musing  ear. 

Wafted  in  varying  cadence,  by  the  shore 
Of  the  still  twinkling  river,  they  bespeak 
15* 


174  COMPLETE    WORKS 

A  day  of  jubilee, 
An  ancient  holiday. 

And,  lo  !  the  rural  revels  are  begun, 
And  gaily  echoing  to  the  laughing  sky, 

On  the  smooth-shaven  green. 

Resounds  the  voice  of  Mirth. 

Alas  !  regardless  of  the  tongue  of  Fate, 
That  tells  them  'tis  but  as  an  hour  since  they 

Who  now  are  in  their  graves, 

Kept  up  the  Whitsun  dance. 

And  that  another  hour,  and  they  must  fall 
Like  those  who  went  before,  and  sleep  as  still 

Beneath  the  silent  sod, 

A  cold  and  cheerless  sleep. 

Yet  why  should  thoughts  like  these  intrude  to  scare 
The  vagrant  Happiness,  when  she  will  deign 

To  smile  upon  us  here, 

A  transient  visiter  ? 

Mortals  !  be  gladsome  while  ye  have  the  power, 
And  laugh  and  seize  the  glittering  lapse  of  joy  ; 

In  time  the  bell  will  toll 

That  warns  ye  to  your  graves. 

I  to  the  woodland  solitude  will  bend 

My  lonesome  way — where  Mirth's  obstreperous  shout 

Shall  not  intrude  to  break 

The  meditative  hour. 

There  will  I  ponder  on  the  state  of  man. 
Joyless  and  sad  of  heart,  and  consecrate 

This  day  of  jubilee 

To  sad  reflection's  shrine  ; 

And  I  will  cast  my  fond  eye  far  beyond 
This  world  of  care,  to  where  the  steeple  loud 

Shall  rock  above  the  sod, 

Where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

CANZONET. 

I. 

Maiden  !  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 

Cold  the  rain  beats  on  thy  breast : 
Why  should  Horror's  voice  astound  thee 
Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest  ! 
All  under  the  tree 
Thy  bed  may  be, 
And  thou  mayst  slumber  peacefully. 

II. 

Maiden  !  once  gay  Pleasure  knew  thee  ; 

Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep  : 
Love  has  been  a  felon  to  thee, 
Yet,  poor  maiden,  do  not  weep  ; 
There's  rest  for  thee 
All  under  the  tree, 
Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 


175 


k 


COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  POEM 

ON  DESPAIR. 

Some  to  Aonian  lyres  of  silver  sound 

With  winning  elegance  attune  their  song, 

Form'd  to  sink  lightly  on  the  soothed  sense. 

And  charm  the  soul  with  softest  harmony  : 

'Tis  then  that  Hope  with  sanguine  eye  is  seen 

Roving  through  Fancy's  gay  futurity  ; 

Her  heart  light  dancing  to  the  sounds  of  pleasure, 

Pleasure  of  days  to  come.— Memory,  too,  then 

Comes  with  her  sister,  Melancholy  sad. 

Pensively  musing  on  the  scenes  of  youth, 

Scenes  never  to  return.* 

Such  subjects  merit  poets  used  to  raise 

The  attic  verse  harmonious  ;  but  for  me 

A  dreadlier  theme  demands  my  backward  hand. 

And  bids  me  strike  the  strings  of  dissonance 

♦Alluding  to  tlie  two  pleasing  poems,  the  Ple:isiu-cs  of  Hope  and  of  Memory. 


176  COMPLETE    WORKS 

With  frantic  energ-y. 

'Tis  wan  Despair  I  sing ;  if  sing  I  can 

Of  him  before  wliose  blast  the  voice  of  Song, 

And  Mirth,  and  Hope,  and  Happiness  all  fly, 

Nor  ever  dare  return.     His  notes  are  heard 

At  noon  of  night,  where  on  the  coast  of  blood. 

The  lacerated  son  of  Angola 

Howls  forth  his  suflTerings  to  the  moaning  wind ; 

And,  when  the  awful  silence  of  the  night 

Strikes  the  chill  death-dew  to  the  murderer's  heart, 

He  speaks  in  every  conscience-prompted  word 

Half  utter'd,  half  suppressed — 

'Tis  him  I  sing — Despair — terrific  name, 

Striking  unsteadily  the  tremulous  chord 

Of  timorous  terror — discord  in  the  sound  : 

For  to  a  theme  revolting  as  is  this. 

Dare  not  I  woo  the  maids  of  harmony. 

Who  love  to  sit  and  catch  the  soothing  sound 

Of  lyre  ^olian,  or  the  martial  bugle. 

Calling  the  hero  to  the  field  of  glory, 

And  firing  him  with  deeds  of  high  emprise. 

And  warlike  triumph  :  but  from  scenes  like  mine 

Shrink  they  aflrighted,  and  detest  the  bard 

Who  dares  to  sound  the  hollow  tones  of  horror. 

Hence,  then,  soft  maids. 
And  woo  the  silken  zephyr  in  the  bowers 
By  Heliconia's  sleep-inviting  stream  : 
For  aid  like  yours  I  seek  not  ;  'tis  for  powers 
Of  darker  hue  to  inspire  a  verse  like  m.ine  ! 
'Tis  work  for  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  fiends  ! 

Hither,  ye  furious  imps  of  Acheron, 
Nurslings  of  hell,  and  beings  shunning  light, 
And  all  the  myriads  of  the  burning  concave  ; 
Souls  of  the  damned  ;— Hither,  oh  !  come  and  join 
The  infernal  chorus.     'Tis  Despair  I  sing  ! 
He,  whose  sole  tooth  inflicts  a  deadlier  pang 
Than  all  your  tortures  join'd.     Sing,  sing  Despair  ! 
Repeat  the  sound,  and  celebrate  his  povv^er ; 
Unite  shouts,  screams,  and  agonising  shrieks. 
Till  the  loud  psean  ring  through  helPs  high  vault, 
And  the  remotest  spirits  of  the  deep 
Leap  from  the  lake,  and  join  the  dreadful  song. 


OF    H.    K.     WHITE. 

TO  THE  WIND, 

AT  MIDNIGHT.    ' 

Not  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear, 

Blasts  of  the  night !  ye  howl  as  now 

My  shuddering  casement  loud 
With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 

Mine  ear  has  dwelt  in  silent  awe, 
The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush  ; 
And  when  the  passing  gale 
Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 


177 


THE  EVE  OF  DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 
I. 

Silence  of  death — portentous  calm, 

Those  airy  forms  that  yonder  fly, 
Denote  that  your  void  fore-runs  a  storm, 

That  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh. 
I  see,  I  see,  on  the  dim  mist  borne. 

The  Spirit  of  battles  rear  his  crest ! 
I  see,  I  see,  that  ere  the  morn. 

His  spear  will  forsake  its  hated  rest. 
And  the  widow 'd  wife  of  Larrendill  will  beat  her  naked 
breast. 

n. 

O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  sullen  deep, 

No  softly  riiflhng  zephyrs  fly  ; 
But  Nature  sleeps  a  deathless  sleep. 

For  the  hour  of  battle  is  nigh. 
Not  a  loose  leaf  waves  on  the  dusky  oak, 

But  a  creeping  stillness  reigns  around  ; 
Except  when  the  raven,  with  ominous  croak. 

On  the  ear  does  unwelcomely  sound. 


178  COMPLETE    WORKS 

I  know,  I  know  what  this  silence  means ; 

I  know  what  the  raven  saith — 
Strike,  oh,  ye  bards  !  the  melancholy  harp, 

For  this  is  the  eve  of  death. 

III. 

Behold,  how  along  the  twilight  air 

The  shades  of  our  fathers  glide  ! 
There  Morven  fled,  with  the  blood-drench 'd  hair, 

And  Colma  with  gray  side. 
No  gale  around  its  coolness  flings, 

Yet  sadly  sigh  the  gloomy  trees  ; 
And,  hark  !  how  the  harp's  un visited  strings 

Sound  sweet,  as  if  swept  by  a  whispering  breeze  t 
'Tis  done  !  the  sun  he  has  set  in  blood ! 

He  will  never  set  more  to  the  brave  ; 
Let  us  pour  to  the  hero  the  dirge  of  death — 

For  to-morrow  he  hies  to  the  grave. 


THANATOS. 

Oh  !  who  would  cherish  life, 
And  cling  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay, 

Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 
Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day  ; 
And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles, 
ConceaPd,  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey, 
Where  pit-falls  lie  in  every  flowery  way. 

And  sirens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles  ! 
Hateful  it  is  to  me. 
Its  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife  ; 

I'm  tired  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  vshouts 
Dinning  the  ear  ; — away — away  with  life  ! 

And  welcome,  oh  !  thou  silent  maid. 

Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid, 

Where  never  day-light's  dazzling  ray 

Comes  to  disturb  thy  dismal  sway  ; 

And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost  sleep, 

In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep, 

That  all  thy  senses  stupified. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  179 

Are  to  marble  petrified. 

Sleepy  Death,  I  welcome  thee  ! 

Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 

Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more, 

Nor  the  fatal  hellebore  ; 

Death  is  the  best,  the  only  cure, 

His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 

Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb, 

In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 

I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state. 

With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great : 

Over  me,  magnificent. 

Carve  a  stately  monument : 

Then  thereon  my  statue  lay, 

With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray, 

And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head, 

Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 

Duly  too  at  close  of  day, 

Let  the  pealing  organ  play  ; 

And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll, 

Chant  a  vesper  to  my  soul : 

Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  will  be, 

Shut  out  from  thoughtful  misery  ! 


ATHANATOS. 

Away  with  Death— away 
With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  chilling  damps, 

Impervious  to  the  day, 
Where  Nature  sinks  into  inanity. 
How  can  the  soul  desire 
Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave. 
And  yield  with  joy  the  vital  fire, 
To  moulder  in  the  grave  ! 

Yet  mortal  life  is  sad, 
Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky  ; 

And  sorrows  ever  rife 
Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry — 
Away  with  mortal  life  ! 
But,  hail  the  calm  reality, 


180  COMPLETE    WORKS 

The  seraph  Immortality  ! 

Hail  the  Heavenly  bowers  of  peace  ! 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 

Wild  Life's  dismaying-  struggle  o'er, 

The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more  ; 

But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy, 

Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 

Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers, 

Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers  ; 

But  the  azure  heavens  display 

The  everlasting  smile  of  day  ; 

Where  the  cl\oral  seraph  choir, 

Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre  ; 

And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 

Lull'd  by  distant  symphonies. 

Oh  !  to  think  of  meeting  there 

The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear^ 

The  daughter  loved,  the  wife  adored. 

To  our  widow 'd  arms  restored  ; 

And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever,, 

Given  to  us  again  forever  ! 

Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life. 

And  hug  the  poison'd  thorn  of  strife  ; 

Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly, 

A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  lie. 

When  the  glorious  prospect  lies 

Full  before  his  raptured  eyes  .'' 


MUSIC. 

Written  between  the  Ages  of  Fourteen  and  Fifteen,  with  a  few  subaequent  verbal 
Alterations. 

Music,  all  powerful  o'er  the  human  mind. 

Can  still  each  mental  storm,  each  tumult  calm, 

Soothe  anxious  Care  on  sleepless  couch  reclined, 
And  e'en  fierce  Anger's  furious  rage  disarm. 

At  her  command  the  various  passions  lie  ; 

She  stirs  to  battle,  or  she  lulls  to  peace ; 
Melts  the  charm'd  soul  to  thrilling  ecstasy. 

And  bids  the  jarring  world's  harsh  clangour  cease. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  181 

Her  martial  sounds  can  fainting  troops  inspire 
With  strength  unwonted,  and  enthusiasm  raise  ; 

Infuse  new  ardor,  and  with  youthful  fire 

Urge  on  the  warrior  gray  with  length  of  days. 

Far  better  she  when  with  her  soothing  lyre 

She  charms  the  falchion  from  the  savage  grasp, 

And  melting  into  pity  vengeful  Ire, 

Looses  the  bloody  breast-plate's  iron  clasp. 

With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam. 

At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline, 

And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam. 
In  calm  Seclusion's  hermit- walks  recline. 

Whilst  mellow  sounds  from  distant  copse  arise. 
Of  softest  flute  or  reeds  harmonic  join'd. 

With  rapture  thrill 'd  each  worldly  passion  dies, 
And  pleased  Attention  claims  the  passive  mind. 

Soft  through  the  dell  the  dying  strains  retire. 
Then  burst  majestic  in  the  varied  swell ; 

Now  breathe  melodious  as  the  Grecian  lyre, 
Or  on  the  ear  in  sinking  cadence  dwell. 

Romantic  sounds  !  such  is  the  bliss  ye  give, 

That   heaven's  bright  scenes  seem  bursting  on  the 
soul. 

With  joy  I'd  yield  each  sensual  wish,  to  live 
Forever  'neath  your  undefiled  control. 

Oh  !  surely  melody  from  heaven  was  sent. 
To  cheer  the  soul  when  tired  with  human  strife. 

To  soothe  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  rent. 
And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life. 

16 


182  COMPLETE    WORKS 

ODE, 

TO  THE   HARVEST   MOON. 


-Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver : 


Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viiidi  stipula  lactentia  turgent : 

Cuncta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret.— FirgiZ. 


Moon  of  Harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labor's  child, 
Hail  !  oh  hail  !  I  greet  thy  beam, 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream. 
And  gilds  the  straw-thatch 'd  hamlet  wide, 
VkTiere  Innocence  and  Peace  reside  ; 
'Tis  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng, 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 

Moon  of  Harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene  ; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky. 
Where  no  thin  vapor  intercepts  thy  ray, 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Pleasing  'tis,  oh  !  modest  Moon  ! 
Now  the  Night  is  at  her  noon , 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie. 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tann'd  wheat, 
Ripen'd  by  the  summer's  heat  ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye. 

And  thinking  soon, 

Oh,  modest  Moon  ! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest-home. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  183 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 

Stern  despoilers  of  tlie  plains, 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee. 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity  : 

May  no  whids  careering  high, 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky, 
But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh,  Har- 
vest Moon ! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 

The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seaPd  eyes  ; 

He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 

The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound  ; 

Oh  I  may  no  hurricane  destroy 

His  visionary  views  of  joy  ! 
God  of  the  Winds  !  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer, 
And  while  the  moon  of  harvest  shines,  thy  blustering 
whirlwind  spare. 

Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 

Leave  I  Sleep's  dull  power  to  woo  : 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed. 

While  feverish  dreams  surround  your  head  ; 

I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade. 

Penetrate  the  thickest  shade, 

Wrapp'd  in  Contemplation's  dreams. 

Musing  high  on  holy  themes. 

While  on  tlie  gale 

Shall  softly  sail 
The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon  ! 


184  COMPLETE    WORKS 

SONG. 


Written  at  the  age  of  fourteen. 


I. 

Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes, 

Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly  ! 
Lo  !  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly  ; 
Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by  ! 
My  love  is  asleep. 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

II. 

I  have  cover'd  him  with  rushes, 
Water-flags,  and  branches  dry. 
Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers  ; 
Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye  ! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  hes  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

III. 

Still  he  sleeps  ;  he  will  not  waken, 

Fastly  closed  is  his  eye  ; 
Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 
Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 
Alas  !  he  is  dead. 
He  has  chose  his  death-bed 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

IV. 

Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  ^ 

Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
Couldst  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  ? 
No,  my  love,  thou  bid'st  me  die. 
Thou  bid'st  me  seek 
Thy  death-bed  bleak 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  ^^^ 


V. 


I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips, 

On  thy  breast  I'll  lay  my  head, 
And  the  winds  shall  sing  our  death-dirge, 
And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread  ; 
The  moon  will  smile  sweet, 
And  the  wild  wave  will  beat. 
Oh  !  so  softly  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SOLITARY'S  SONG 
TO  THE  NIGHT. 

Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night  ! 
1  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high. 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds. 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low  ; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  we'ave  a  song- 
A  melancholy  song  ! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  morn, 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam, 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calni, 

That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 

I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year. 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard  ; 
I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  linger'd  in  the  shade. 
From  sultry  noon's  hot  beam  ;  and  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door, 
To  sing  my  evening  song. 
16* 


186  COMPLETE    WORKS 

And  I  have  hail'd  the  gray  morn  high, 
On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow, 
And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

^  But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed. 

At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet, 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 

I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 

The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace  ; 
But  oh  !  when  darkness  robes  the  heavens, 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me  ; 
And  oh  !  1  am  not  then  alone — 
A  solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blustering  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat. 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife  ; 
And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child  ; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home, 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour. 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss, 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 

The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

The  deep-toned  winds,  the  moaning  sea, 
The  whispering  of  the  boding  trees. 
The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 

The  Condor's  hollow  scream. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  187 


SONNET. 

Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Summer's  smile, 

Sweet  the  wild  music  of  the  laughing  Spring  ; 
But  ah  !  my  soul  far  other  scenes  beguile, 

Where  s^loomy  storms  their  sullen  shadows  fling. 
Is  it  for  me  to  strike  the  Idalian  string — 

Raise  the  soft  music  of  the  warbling  wire. 
While  in  my  ears  the  howls  of  furies  ring 

And  melancholy  wastes  the  vital  fire  ? 
Away  with  thoughts  like  these — To  some  lone  cave 

Where  howls  the  shrill  blast,  and  where  sweeps  the 
wave. 
Direct  my  steps  ;  there,  in  the  lonely  drear, 

ril  sit  remote  from  worldly  noise,  and  muse 

Till  through  my  soul  shall  Peace  her  balm  infuse, 
And  whisper  sounds  of  comfort  in  mine  ear. 


THE    CHRISTIAD, 

A  DIVINE  POEM. 


BOOK  I. 
I. 

I  SING  the  Cross  ! — Ye  white-robed  angel  choirs. 
Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep. 

Ye  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires 

Were  wont,  of  old,  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
Oh,  now  descend  !  and  with  your  harpings  deep. 

Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 
Of  music,  such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep 

Awake  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream. 
And  teach  me  how  to  exalt  the  high  mysterious  theme. 

II. 

Mourn  !  Salem,  mourn  !  low  lies  thine  humbled  state, 
Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levell'd  with  the  ground  ! 


188  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Fallen  is  thy  pride  ! — Thine  halls  are  desolate  ! 

Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrel 's  sprightly  sound, 
And  frolic  pleasures  tripp'd  the  nightly  round, 

There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely, — and  aghast 
Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 

Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 
Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  along  the  cheerless  waste. 

III. 

It  is  for  this,  proud  Solyma  !  thy  towers 
Lie  crumbling  in  the  dust ;  for  this  forlorn 

Thy  genius  wails  along  thy  desert  bowers. 
While  stern  Destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn, 
That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest  born  ; 

And,  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire, 

Pursued  his  footsteps  till  the  last  day-dawn 

Rose  on  his  fortunes — and  thou  saw'st  the  fire 
That  came  to  light  the  world,  in  one  great  flash  expire. 

IV. 

Oh  !  for  a  pencil  dipp'd  in  living  light. 

To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore  ! 
Oh  !  for  the  long-lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might. 

To  hymn  the  Saviour's  praise  from  shore  to  shore ; 

While  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  psean  pour. 
And  Heaven  enraptured  lists  the  loud  acclaim  ! 

May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore  ? 
May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame  ? 
Oh  !  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name  ? 

V. 

Spirits  of  pity  !  mild  Crusaders,  come  ! 

Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float, 
And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb. 

And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note  ! 

And  thou,  Urania  !  who  dost  still  devote 
Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine, 

Whose  mild  eyes  'lumined  what  Isaiah  wrote, 
Throw  o'er  thy  Bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine, 
And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  189 

VI. 

When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 
Satan  o'ercome,  fell  down  ;  and  'throned  there, 

The  Son  of  God  confess'd,  in  splendor  shone  ; 
Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air, 
Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 
*  *  * 

Fled  the  stern  king  of  Hell— and  with  the  glare 
Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red. 
Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gather'd  round  his  head. 

VII. 

Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulf  which  late 

The  rude  Massagetse  adored,  he  bent 
His  northering  course,  while  round,  in  dusky  state, 

The  assembling  fiends  their  summon 'd  troops  aug- 
ment ; 

Clothed  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  \<^ay  they  went, 
While,  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe, 

The  Lapland  sorcerer  swell 'd  with  loud  lament 
The  solitary  gale,  and,  fill'd  with  fear, 
The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 

VIII. 

Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  solitude. 

Spreads  her  huge  tracks  and  frozen  wastes  around, 

There  ice-rocks  piled  aloft,  in  order  rude. 
Form  a  gigantic  hall,  where  never  sound 
Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound 

The  smoke-frost  mutter'd :  there  drear  Cold  for  aye 
Thrones  him, — and,  fix'd  on  his  primeval  mound. 

Ruin,  the  giant,  sits  ;  while  stern  Dismay 
Stalks  like  some  wo-struck  man  along  the  desert  way. 

IX. 

In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair. 
No  sweet  remain  of  life  encheers  the  sight ; 

The  dancing  heart's  blood  in  an  instant  there 

Would  freeze  to  marble. — Mingling  day  and  night 
(  Sweet  interchange,  which  makes  our  labors  light,) 

Are  there  unknown  ;  while  in  the  summer  skies 
The  sun  rolls  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly  height, 


190  COMPLETE     WORKS 

Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  he  flies. 
And  leaves  the  long  bleak  night  of  half  the  year  to  rise. 

X. 

'Twas  there,  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning  lake, 

Satan  had  fix'd  their  next  consistory, 
When  parting  last  he  fondly  hoped  to  shake 

Messiah's  constancy, — and  thus  to  free 

The  powers  of  darkness  from  the  dread  decree 
Of  bondage  brought  by  him,  and  circumvent 

The  unerring  ways  of  Him  whose  eye  can  see 
The  womb  of  Time,  and,  in  its  embryo  pent. 
Discern  the  colors  clear  of  every  dark  event. 

XI. 

Here  the  stern  monarch  stay'd  his  rapid  flight. 

And  his  thick  host,  as  with  a  jetty  pall. 
Hovering  obscured  the  north  star's  peaceful  light, 

Waiting  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftain's  call. 

He,  meanwhile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fail, 
Dropp'd  on  the  echoing  ice.     Instant  the  sound 

Of  their  broad  vans  was  hush'd,  and  o'er  the  hall, 
Vast  and  obscure,  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound. 
Till,  wedged  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan  they  surround. 

XII. 

High  on  a  solium  of  the  solid  wave, 

Prank'd  with  rude  shapes  by  the  fantastic  frost. 
He  stood  in  silence  ;— now  keen  thoughts  engrave 

Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and,  tempest-toss'd. 

He  fears  to  say  that  every  hope  is  lost. 
Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute  : 

So,  ere  the  tempest  on  Malacca's  coast, 
Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute, 
Sings  to  the  whispering  waves  the  prelude  to  dispute. 

XIII. 

At  length  collected,  o'er  the  dark  Divan 

The  arch-fiend  glanced,  as  by  the  Boreal  blaze 
-    Their  downcast  brows  were  seen,  and  thus  began 
His  fierce  harangue  : — '  Spirits  !  our  better  days 
Are  now  elapsed  ;  Moloch  and  Belial's  praise 
Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  by  myriads  trod 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  191 

Lo  !  the  light  breaks  ! — The  astonished  nations  gaze ! 
For  us  is  Ufted  high  the  avenging  rod  !    • 
For,  spirits,  this  is  He, — this  is  the  Son  of  God. 

XIV. 

What  then  ! — shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fear  ? 

Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign 
Drop  from  his  unnerved  arm  the  hostile  spear  ? 

Madness  !  The  very  thought  would  make  me  fain 

To  tear  the  spanglets  from  yon  gaudy  plain, 
And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker  ! — Fix'd  as  fate 

I  am  his  Foe  ! — Yea,  though  his  pride  should  deign 
To  soothe  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state. 
Still  would  I  burn  with  fix'd,  unalterable  hate. 

XV. 

Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  curs'd  emprize. 
When  from  our  last  sad  synod  I  took  flight, 

Buoy'd  with  false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid  disguise, 
To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 
His  own  self-condemnation  ;  in  the  plight 

Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness. 

Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  his  sight, 

And,  leaning  on  my  staff,  seem'd  much  to  guess 
Wliat  cause  could  mortal  bring  to  that  forlorn  recess. 

XVI. 

Then  thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  framed 

My  lowly  speech  : — 'Good  sir,  what  leads  this  way 
Your    wandering    steps  ?    must   hapless    chance    be 
blamed 

That  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray  ? 

Here  have  I  dwelt  for  many  a  lingering  day. 
Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen  ;  but  how  !  methought 

Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy  ray 
I  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 
That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought.' 

XVII. 

^  I  am  that  man,'  said  Jesus,  ^  I  am  He  ! 

But  truce  to  questions — Canst  thou  point  my  feet 
To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 

In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 


192  ^  COMPLETE    WORKS 

With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat ; 
For  forty  Jays  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 

Hid  in  the  dark  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 
And  now  I  hunger ;  and  my  fainting  ear 
Longs  much  to  greet   the  sound  of  fountains  gushing 
near.' 

XVIII. 

Then  thus  I  answer 'd  wily  : — '  If,  indeed, 
Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 

For  food  from  men  ? — Lo  !  on  these  flint  stones  feed, 
Bid  them  be  bread  !  Open  thy  lips  and  speak. 
And  living  rills  from  yon  parch 'd  rock  will  break.' 

Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 

Fix'd  on  my  face  ; — the  blood  forsook  my  cheek, 

I  could  not  bear  his  gaze  ; — my  mask  slipp'd  by  ; 
I  would  have  shunn'd  his  look,  but  had  not  power  to  fly. 

XIX. 

Then  he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word — 
Accursed  sounds  !  but  now  my  native  pride 

Return'd,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterr'd, 
I  bore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side, 
Up  to  the  summit,  where  extending  wide 

Kingdoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes. 

Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  descried, 

And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains, 
Tripp'd  to  the  jocund  reed  the  emasculated  swains. 

XX. 

*  Behold,'  I  cried,  'these  glories  !  scenes  divine  ! 

Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays, 
And  these,  0  rapture  !  these  shall  all  be  thine. 

If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise. 

Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ? 

Oh  !  leave  his  temples,  shun  his  wounding  ways  ! 
Seize  the  tiara  !  these  mean  weeds  disdain. 
Kneel,  kneel,  thou  man  of  wo,  and  peace  and  splendor 


XXI. 

Is  it  not  written,'  sternly  he  replied, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  193 

«  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God  !'  Frowning  he  spake, 
And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide, 

Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake, 
And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake, 
The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career, 

And   smote    me   earthward. — Jove   himself   might 
quake 
At  such  a  fall ;  my  sinews  crack'd,  and  near. 
Obscure  and  dizzy  sounds  seem'd  ringing  in  mine  ear. 

XXII. 

Senseless  and  stunn'd  I  lay  ;  till,  casting  round 
My  half  unconscious  gaze,  I  saw  the  foe 

Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
By  volant  angels  ;  and  as  sailing  slow 
He  sunk,  the  hoary  battlement  below. 

While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sun-beam, 
Sweet  on  the  enamour'd  zephyr  was  the  flow 

Of  heavenly  instruments.     Such  strains  oft  seem, 
On  star-light  hill,  to  soothe  the  Syrian  shepherd's  dream. 

XXIII. 

I  saw  blaspheming.     Hate  renew'd  my  strength  ; 
I  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  wing. 

And  left  the  accursed  scene. — Arrived  at  length 
In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers  !  I  bring 
The  tidings  of  defeat.     Hell's  haughty  king 

Thrice  vanquish 'd,  baffled,  smitten,  and  dismayed  ! 

0  shame  !  Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while  array'd, 

High  o'er  the  walls  of  light  rebellion's  banners  play'd  ! 

XXIV. 

Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph  long ; 

Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge.— 0  glorious  sight, 
Prophetic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng, 

1  see  wild  Agony's  lean  finger  write 

Sad  figures  on  his  forehead  !— Keenly  bright 
Revenge's  flambeau  burns  !  Now  in  his  eyes 

Stand  the  hot  tears, — immantled  in  the  night, 
Lo  !  he  retires  to  mourn  ! — I  hear  his  cries  ! 
He  faints— he  falls — and  lo  ! — 'tis  true,  ye  powers,  he 
dies.' 

17 


194  COMPLETE    WORKS 


XXV. 

Thus  spake  the  chieftain, — and  as  if  he  view'd 
The  scene  he  pictured,  with  his  foot  advanced 

And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood. 
While  under  his  upHfted  shield  he  glanced. 
With  straining  eye-ball  fix'd,  like  one  entranced, 

On  viewless  air  ; — thither  the  dark  platoon 
Gazed  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when  there 
danced 

The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
Darken'd  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence  crept  stilly  through  the  ranks. — The  breeze 
Spake  most  distinctly.     As  the  sailor  stands, 

When  all  the  midnight  gasping  from  the  seas 
Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 

The  ocean-farer's  life  ;  so  stiff"— so  sear 

Stood  each  dark  power  ; — while  through  their  nu- 
merous bands 

Beat  not  one  heart,  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge  appear. 

XXVII. 

One  there  was  there,  whose  loud  defying  tongue 
Nor  hope  nor  fear  had  silenced,  but  the  swell 

Of  over-boiUng  malice.     Utterance  long 

His  passion  mock'd,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 
His  laboring  ire  ;  still  syllable  none  fell 

From  his  pale  quivering  lip,  but  died  away^ 
For  very  fury  ;  from  each  hollow  cell 

Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray, 
And  *#*'** 

XXVIII. 

*  This  comes,'  at  length  burst  from  the  furious  chief, 
'  This  comes  of  distant  counsels  !  Here  behold 

The  fruits  of  wily  cunning  !  the  relief 
Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold. 
To  soothe  the  powers  that  warr'd  with  Heaven  of 
old! 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


195 


0  wise  !  0  potent !  0  sagacious  snare  ! 

And  lo  !  our  prince — the  mighty  and  the  bold, 
There  stands  he,  spell-struck,  gaping  at  the  air, 
While  Heaven  subverts  his  reign,  and  plants  her  stand- 
ard there.' 

XXIX. 

Here,  as  recovered,  Satan  fix'd  his  eye 

Full  on  the  speaker  ;  dark  it  was  and  stern  ; 
He  wrapp'd  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily, 

And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughts  con- 
cern. 

Him  Moloch  mark'd,  and  strove  again  to  turn 
His  soul  to  rage.     '  Behold,  behold,'  he  cried, 

'  The  lord  of  Hell,  who  bade  these  legions  spurn 
Almighty  rule — behold  he  lays  aside 
The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man  defied.' 

XXX. 

Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  [burning]  tongue 
Hung  quivering,  as  if  [mad]  to  quench  its  heat 

In  slaughter.     So,  his  native  wilds  among. 
The  famish'd  tiger  pants,  when,  near  his  seat, 
Press'd  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's  feet. 

Instant  low  murmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 
Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung  ;  but  toward  the  seat 

Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turn'd  with  one  accord. 
As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 


*  Ye  powers  of  Hell,  I  am  no  coward.  I  proved  this  of 
old  :  who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies  of  Jehovah  ? 
Who  coped  with  Ithuriel  and  the  thunders  of  the  Al- 
mighty ?  Who,  when  stunned  and  confused  ye  lay  on  the 
burning  lake,  who  first  awoke,  and  collected  your  scat- 
tered powers  ?  Lastly,  who  led  you  across  the  un- 
fathomable abyss  to  this  delightful  world,  and  establish- 
ed that  reign  here  which  now  totters  to  its  base  ?  How, 
therefore,  dares  yon  treacherous  fiend  to  cast  a  stain  on 
Satan's  bravery  ?  he  who  preys  only  on  the  defence- 
less— who  sucks  the  blood  of  infants,  and  delights  only 
in  acts  of  ignoble  cruelty  and  unequal  contention.  Away 
with  the  boaster  who  never  joins  in  action,  but,  like  a 


196  COMPLETE    AVORKS 

cormorant,  hovers  over  the  field,  to  feed  upon  the 
wounded,  and  overvvhehii  the  dying.  True  bravery  is 
as  remote  from  rashness  as  from  hesitation  ;  let  us 
counsel  coolly,  but  let  us  execute  our  counselled  pur- 
poses determinately.  In  power  we  have  learned,  by 
that  experiment  which  lost  us  Heaven,  that  we  are  in- 
ferior to  the  Thunder-bearer  : — In  subtlety — in  subtlety 
alone  we  are  his  equals.     Open  war  is  impossible. 


Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  Conqueror,  through  the  race 
Which  as  himself  he  loves  ;  thus  if  we  fall, 

We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace 
Of  falling  unrevenged.  The  stirring  call 
Of  vengeance  wrings  within  me  !     Warriors  all, 

The  word  is  vengeance,  and  the  spur  despair. 

Away  with  coward  wiles  ! — Death's  coal-black  pall 

Be  now  our  standard  ! — Be  our  torch  the  glare 
Of  cities  fired  !  our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the  air ! 

Him  answering  rose  Mecashpim,  who  of  old, 
Far  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves, 

Was  worshipp'd,  God  of  Fire,  with  charms  untold 
And  mystery.     His  wandering  spirit  roves, 
Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  loves. 

And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white-robed  sire, 
Where  stood  his  temple,  and  where  fragrant  cloves 

And  cinnamon  upheap'd  the  sacred  pyre. 
And  nightly  magi  watch'd  the  everlasting  fire. 

He  waved  his  rob^  of  flame,  he  cross'd  his  breast, 
And  sighing — his  papyrus  scarf  survey 'd. 

Woven  with  dark  characters  ;  then  thus  address'd 
The  troubled  council. 


I. 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 
With  self-rewarding  toil,  thus  far  have  sung 

Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  that  beseem 

The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung ; 
And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  '  197 

The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 

On  the  dark  cypress  !  and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard  no 
more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 
Oh  !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day  ! 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am  free. 

#  #  *  *  ^ 

*  *  *  # 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 


LINES  AND  NOTE 

BY  LORD  BYRON. 

Unhappy  "White  !  *  while  Hfe  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing. 
The  spoiler  came  ;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  forever  there. 
Oh  !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone. 
When  science'  self  destroyed  her  favorite  son  ! 
Yes  !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit. 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 

*  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge  in  Octolier  1806,  in  consequence  of  too 
much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that  would  have  matured  a  mind  which  dis- 
ease and  poverty  could  not  impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather  tlian  sub- 
dued. His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress  the  reader  with  the 
liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  period  ^\  as  allotted  to  talents,  which  would  have  dig- 
nified even  the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to  assume. 
11* 


198  COMPLETE    WORKS 

'Twas  tliine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low. 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart. 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  the  steel  ; 
AVhile  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest, 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 


WRITTEN    IN 

THE   HOMER   OF   H.   K.   WHITE. 

Presented  to  me  by  his  Brother,  J.  Neville  White 

Bard  of  brief  days,  but  ah,  of  deathless  fame  ! 

While  on  these  awful  leaves  my  fond  eyes  rest. 

On  which  thine  late  have  dwelt,  thy  hand  late  press'd, 
T  pause  ;  and  gaze  regretful  on  thy  name. 
By  neither  chance  nor  envy,  time  nor  flame, 

Be  it  from  this  its  mansion  dispossess'd  ! 

But  thee  Eternity  clasps  to  her  breast. 
And  in  celestial  splendor  thrones  thy  claim. 

n. 

No  more  with  mortal  pencil  shalt  thou  trace 

An  imitative  radiance  :*  thy  pure  lyre 
Springs  from  our  changeful  atmosphere's  embrace, 

And  beams  and  breathes  in  empyreal  fire  : 
The  Homeric  and  Miltonian  sacred  tone 
Responsive  hail  that  lyre  congenial  to  their  own. 

C   Li. 

Bury,  lltli  Jan.  1807. 

*  Alluding  to  his  penciled  sketch  of  a  head  surrounded  with  a  glory. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  199 

,TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

BY  A  LADY. 

If  worth,  if  genius,  to  the  world  are  dear, 

To  Henry's  shade  devote  no  common  tear. 

His  worth  on  no  precarious  tenure  hung, 

From  genuine  piety  his  virtues  sprung  : 

If  pure  benevolence,  if  steady  sense, 

Can  to  the  feeling  heart  delight  dispense  ; 

If  all  the  highest  efforts  of  the  mind, 

Exalted,  noble,  elegant,  refined. 

Call  for  fond  sympathy's  heart-felt  regret, 

Ye  sons  of  genius,  pay  the  mournful  debt : 

His  friends  can  truly  speak  how  large  his  claim, 

And  '  Life  was  only  wanting  to  his  fame.' 

Art  Thou,  indeed,  dear  youth,  forever  fled  ? 

So  quickly  number'd  with  the  silent  dead. 

Too  sure  I  read  it  in  the  downcast  eye. 

Hear  it  in  mourning  friendship's  stifled  sigh. 

Ah  !  could  esteem,  or  admiration,  save 

So  dear  an  object  from  th'  untimely  grave, 

This  transcript  faint  had  not  essay 'd  to  tell, 

The  less  of  one  beloved,  revered  so  well. 

Vainly  I  try,  even  eloquence  were  weak. 

The  bilent  sorrow  that  I  feel,  to  speak. 

No  more  my  hours  of  pain  thy  voice  will  cheer. 

And  bind  my  spirit  to  this  lower  sphere 

Bend  o'er  my  sufl'ering  frame  with  gentle  sigh, 

And  bid  new  fire  relume  my  languid  eye  : 

No  more  the  pencil's  mimic  art  command, 

And  with  kind  pity  guide  my  trembling  hand  ; 

Nor  dwell  upon  the  page  in  fond  regard 

To  trace  the  meaning  of  the  Tuscan  bard. 

Tain  all  the  pleasures  Thou  can'st  not  inspire, 

And  'in  my  breast  th'  imperfect  joys  expire,' 

I  fondly  hoped  thy  hand  might  grace  my  shrine. 

And  little  dream'd  I  should  have  wept  o'er  thine  : 

In  Fancy's  eye  methought  I  saw  thy  lyre 

With  virtue's  energies  each  bosom  fire  ; 

I  saw  admiring  nations  press  around. 

Eager  to  catch  the  animating  sound  : 


200  COMPLETE    WORKS 

And  when,  at  length,  sunk  in  the  shades  of  night, 
To  brighter  worlds  thy  spirit  wing'd  its  flight, 
Thy  country  hail'd  thy  venerated  shade. 
And  each  graced  honor  to  thy  memory  paid. 
Such  was  the  fate  hope  pictured  to  my  view- 
But  who,  alas  !  e'er  found  hope's  visions  true  ? 
And,  ah  !  a  dark  presage,  when  last  we  met, 
Sadden'd  the  social  hour  with  deep  regret ; 
When  Thou  thy  portrait  from  the  minstrel  drew, 
The  living  Edwin  starting  on  my  view — 
Silent,  I  ask'd  of  Heaven  a  lengthen'd  dp,te  ; 
His  genius  thine,  but  not  like  thine  his  fate. 
Shuddering  I  gazed,  and  saw  too  sure  reveaPd, 
The  fatal  truth,  by  hope  till  then  conceal'd. 
Too  strong  the  portion  of  celestial  flame 
For  its  weak  tenement,  the  fragile  frame  ; 
Too  soon  for  us  it  sought  its  native  sky, 
And  soar'd  impervious  to  the  mortal  eye  ; 
Like  some  clear  planet,  shadow'd  from  our  sight, 
Leaving  behind  long  tracks  of  lucid  light : 
So  shall  thy  bright  example  fire  each  youth 
With  love  of  virtue,  piety,  and  truth. 
Long  o'er  thy  loss  shall  grateful  Granta  mourn, 
And  bid  her  sons  revere  thy  favor'd  urn. 
When  thy  loved  flower  '  Spring's  victory  makes  known,* 
The  primrose  pale  shall  bloom  for  thee  alone  : 
Around  thy  urn  the  rosemary  we'll  spread, 
Wliose  'tender  fragrance,'— emblem  of  the  dead- 
Shall  '  teach  the  maid,  whose  bloom  no  longer  lives,' 
That  '  virtue  every  perish'd  grace  survives.' 
Farewell !  sweet  Moralist  ;  heart-sickening  grief 
Tells  me  in  duty's  paths  to  seek  relief. 
With  surer  aim  on  faith's  strong  pinions  rise, 
And  seek  hope's  vanish'd  anchor  in  the  skies. 
Yet  still  on  thee  shall  fond  remembrance  dwell 
And  to  the  world  thy  worth  delight  to  tell  ; 
Though  well  I  feel  unworthy  Thee  the  lays 
That  to  thy  memory  weeping  friendship  pays. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  201 

STANZAS 

Supposed  to  have  been  written  af.  the  Grave  of  H-  K.  White. 

BY  A  LADY. 

1. 

Ye  gentlest  gales  !  oh,  hither  waft, 

On  airy  undulating  sweeps, 
Your  frequent  sighs,  so  passing  soft. 

Where  he,  the  youthful  Poet,  sleeps  ! 
He  breathed  the  purest,  tenderest  sigh, 
The  sigh  of  sensibility. 


And  thou  shalt  lie,  his  favorite  flower, 
Pale  Primrose,  on  his  grave  reclined : 

Swxet  emblem  of  his  fleeting  hour. 
And  of  his  pure,  his  spotless  mind  ! 

Like  thee,  he  sprung  in  lowly  vale  ; 

And  felt,  like  thee,  the  trying  gale. 

3. 

Nor  hence  thy  pensive  eye  seclude, 
Oh  thou,  the  fragrant  Rosemary, 

Where  he,  '  in  marble  solitude. 

So  peaceful,  and  so  deep,'  doth  lie  ! 

His  harp  prophetic  sung  to  thee 

In  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 

4. 

Ye  falling  dews,  Oh  !  ever  leave 

Your  chrystal  drops  these  flowers  to  steep 
At  earliest  morn,  at  latest  eve. 

Oh  let  them  for  their  Poet  weep  ! 
For  tears  bedew'd  his  gentle  eye, 
The  tears  of  heavenly  sympathy. 

5. 

Thou  western  Sun,  eff*use  thy  beams  ; 
For  he  was  wont  to  pace  the  glade, 
To  watch  in  pale  uncertain  gleams, 


202  COMPLETE    WORKS 

The  crimson-zoned  horizon  fade— 
Thy  last,  thy  setting  radiance  pour, 
Where  he  is  set  to  rise  no  more. 


ODE 

ON  THE  LATE  H.  K.  WHITE. 

And  is  the  minstrel's  voyage  o'er  ? 

And  is  the  star  of  genius  fled  ? 
And  will  his  magic  harp  no  more, 

Mute  in  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Its  strains  seraphic  pour  ? 

A  Pilgrim  in  this  world  of  wo, 

Condemn'd,  alas  !  awhile  to  stray, 

Where  bristly  thorns,  where  briars  grow, 
He  bade,  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way, 

Its  heavenly  music  flow. 

And  oft  he  bade,  by  fame  inspired, 
Its  wild  notes  seek  th'  ethereal  plain, 

Till  angels  by  its  music  fired, 

Have,  listening,  caught  th'  ecstatic  strain, 

Have  wonder'd,  and  admired. 

But  now  secure  on  happier  shores. 
With  choirs  of  sainted  souls  he  sings  ; 

His  harp  th'  Omnipotent  adores, 
And  from  its  sweet,  its  silver  strings 

Celestial  music  pours. 

And  though  on  earth  no  more  he'll  weave 
The  lay  that's  fraught  with  magic  fire. 

Yet  oft  shall  Fancy  hear  at  eve 
His  now  exalted,  heavenly  lyre 

In  sounds  ^olian  grieve. 

JUVENIS. 

B.  Stoke. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  203 

VERSES. 

Occasioned  by  the  Death  of  H.  K.  White. 

What  is  this  world  at  best, 
Though  deck'd  in  vernal  bloom, 
By  hope  and  youthful  fancy  dress'd, 
What,  but  a  ceaseless  toil  for  rest, 
A  passage  to  the  tomb  ? 
If  flowerets  strew 
The  avenue, 
Though  fair,  alas  !  how  fading,  and  how  few. 

And  every  hour  comes  arm'd 
By  sorrow,  or  by  wo  : 
Conceal'd  beneath  its  little  wings, 
A  sithe  the  soft-shod  pilferer  brings. 
To  lay  some  comfort  low  : 
Some  tie  t'  unbind, 
By  love  entwined. 
Some  silken  bond  that  holds  the  captive  mind. 

And  every  month  displays 
The  ravages  of  time  : 
Faded  the  flowers  ! — The  Spring  is  past ! 
The  scattered  leaves,  the  wintry  blast, 
Warn  to  a  milder  clime  : 
The  songsters  flee 
The  leafless  tree. 
And  bear  to  happier  realms  their  melody. 

Henry  !  the  world  no  more 
Can  claim  thee  for  her  own  ! 
In  purer  skies  thy  radiance  beams  ! 
Thy  lyre  employ'd  on  nobler  themes 
Before  th'  eternal  throne  : 
Yet,  spirit  dear, 
Forgive  the  tear 
^Vhich  those  must  shed  who're  doom'd  to  linger  here. 


'D' 


Although  a  stranger,  I 

In  friendship's  train  w^ould  weep  : 


204  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Lost  to  the  world,  alas  !  so  young, 
And  must  thy  lyre,  in  silence  hung, 
On  the  dark  cypress  sleep  ? 

The  poet,  all 

Their  friend  may  call  ; 
And  Nature's  self  attends  his  funeral. 

Although  with  feeble  wing 
Thy  flight  I  would  pursue. 
With  quicken'd  zeal,  with  humbled  pride, 
Alike  our  object,  hopes,  and  guide, 
One  heaven  alike  in  view  ; 
True,  it  was  thine 
To  tower,  to  shine  ; 
But  I  may  make  thy  milder  virtues  mine. 

If  Jesus  own  my  name, 
(Though  fame  pronounced  it  never,) 
Sweet  spirit,  not  with  thee  alone. 
But  all  whose  absence  here  I  moan. 
Circling  with  harps  the  golden  throne, 
I  shall  unite  forever  : 
At  death  then  why 
Tremble  or  sigh  ? 
Oh  !  who  would  wish  to  live,  but  he  who  fears  to  die  ! 

JOSIAH     CONDER. 

Dec.  5th,  1807. 


SONNET, 

On  seeing  another  written  to  H.  K.  White,  in  September  1803,  inserted  in  his  '  Remains 
by  Robert  Southey.' 

BY  ARTHUR  OWEN. 

Ah  !  once  again  the  long-left  wires  among. 
Truants  the  Muse  to  weave  her  requiem  song ; 
With  sterner  lore  now  busied,  erst  the  lay 
Cheer'd  my  dark  morn  of  manhood,  wont  to  stray 
O'er  fancy's  fields  in  quest  of  musky  flower  ; 

To  me  nor  fragrant  less,  though  barr'd  from  view 
And  courtship  of  the  world  :  hail'd  was  the  hour 

That  gave  me,  dripping  fresh  with  nature's  dew,    . 


OF    ri.    K.    WHITE.  205 

Poor  Henry's  budding  beauties — to  a  clime 
Hapless  transplanted,  whose  exotic  ray 
Forced  their  young  vigor  into  transient  day, 
And  drain'd  the  stalk  that  rear'd  them  !  and  shall  time 
Trample  these  orphan  blossoms  ? — No  !  they  breathe 
Still  lovelier  charms — for  Southey  culls  the  wreath  ! 

Oxford,  Dec.  17th,  1807. 


SONNET 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MR    H.  K.  WHITE. 

'  'Tis  now  the  dead  of  night,'  and  I  will  go 
To  where  the  brook  soft-murmuring  glides  along 

In  the  still  wood ;  yet  does  the  plaintive  song 
Of  Philomela  through  the  welkin  flow  ; 
And  while  pale  Cynthia  carelessly  doth  throw 

Her  dewy  beams  the  verdant  boughs  among, 

Will  sit  beneath  some  spreading  oak  tree  strong, 
And  intermingle  with  the  streams  my  wo  : 
Hush'd  in  deep  silence  every  gentle  breeze  ; 

No  mortal  breath  disturbs  the  awful  gloom  ; 
Cold,  chilling  dew-droops  trickle  down  the  trees, 

And  every  flower  withholds  its  rich  perfume  : 
'Tis  sorrow  leads  me  to  that  sacred  ground 
Where  Henry  moulders  in  a  sleep  profound  ! 

J.  G. 


REFLECTIONS, 

On  reading  the  Life  of  the  late  H.  K.  White. 

BY  WILLIAM  HOLLOW  AY, 
Author   of  '  The  Peasants  Fate.'  4 

Darling  of  science  and  the  muse, 
How  shall  a  son  of  song  refuse 

To  shed  a  tear  for  thee  ? 
To  us,  so  soon,  forever  lost, 
What  hopes,  what  prospects  have  been  cross'd 

By  Heaven's  supreme  decree  ? 
18 


206  COMPLETE    WORKS 

How  could  a  parent,  love-beguiled, 
In  life's  fair  prime  resig-n  a  child 

So  duteous,  good,  and  kind  ? 
The  warblers  of  the  soothing  strain 
Must  string  the  elegiac  lyre  in  vain 

To  soothe  the  wounded  mind  ! 

Yet  Fancy,  hovering  round  the  tomb, 
Half  envies,  while  she  mourns  thy  doom, 

Dear  poet,  saint,  and  sage  ! 
Who  into  one  short  span,  at  best, 
The  wisdom  of  an  age  compress'd, 

A  patriarch's  iengthen'd  age  ! 

To  him  a  genius  sanctified, 
And  purged  from  literary  pride, 

A  sacred  boon  was  given  : 
Chaste  as  the  psalmist's  harp,  his  lyre 
Celestial  raptures  could  inspire, 

And  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven. 

'Twas  not  the  laurel  earth  bestows, 
'Twas  not  the  praise  from  man  that  flows, 

With  classic  toil  he  sought : 
He  sought  the  crown  that  martyrs  wear, 
When  rescued  from  a  world  of  care  ; 

Their  spirit  too  he  caught. 

Here  come,  ye  thoughtless,  vain,  and  gay. 
Who  idly  range  in  Folly's  way. 

And  learn  the  icorth  of  time  : 
Learn  ye,  whose  days  have  run  to  waste, 
How  to  redeem  this  pearl  at  last, 

Atoning  for  your  crime. 

^  This  flower,  that  droop'd  in  one  cold  clime, 
Transplanted  from  the  soil  of  time 

To  immortality, 
In  full  perfection  there  shall  bloom  ; 
And  those  who  now  lament  his  doom 

Must  bow  to  God's  decree. 

London,  27th  Feb.  1808. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  207 

ON    READING   THE    POEM    ON    SOLITUDE. 
In  the  second  volume  of  H.  K.  White's  *  Remains. 

But  art  thou  thus  indeed  '  alone  ? ' 
Quite  unbefriended — all  unknown  ? 
And  hast  thou  then  his  name  forgot 
Who  form'd  thy  frame,  and  fix'd  thy  lot  ? 

Is  not  his  voice  in  evening's  gale  ? 
Beams  not  with  him  the  '  star'  so  pale  ? 
Is  there  a  leaf  can  fade  and  die, 
Unnoticed  by  his  watchful  eye  ? 

Each  fluttering  hope — each  anxious  fear —     v 
Each  lonely  sigh — each  silent  tear — 
To  thine  Almighty  Friend  are  known  -; 
And  say'st  thou,  thou  art  *  all  alone  ? ' 

JOSIAH  CONDER. 


TO  THE 

MEMORY   OF   H.    K.    WHITE. 

BY  THE  REV.  W.  B.  COLLYER,  A.  M. 


0,  LOST  too  soon  !  accept  the  tear 
A  stranger  to  thy  memory  pays  ! 

Dear  to  the  muse,  to  science  dear, 
In  the  young  morning  of  thy  days  ! 

All  the  wild  notes  that  pity  loved 
Awoke,  responsive  still  to  thee. 

While  o'er  the  lyre  thy  fingers  roved 
In  softest,  sweetest  harmony. 

The  chords  that  in  the  human  heart 
Compassion  touches  as  her  own, 

Bore  in  thy  symphonies  a  part — 
With  them  in  perfect  unison. 


208  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Amidst  aocnmulated  woes, 
That  premature  afflictions  bring, 

Submission's  sacred  hymn  arose, 
Warbled  from  every  mournful  string. 

When  o'er  thy  dawn  the  darkness  spread, 
And  deeper  every  moment  grew  ; 

When  rudely  round  thy  youthful  head, 
The  chilling  blasts  of  sickness  blew  ; 

Religion  heard  no  'plainings  loud. 
The  sigh  in  secret  stole  from  thee  ; 

And  pity,  from  the  '  dropping  cloud,' 
Shed  tears  of  holy  sympathy. 

Cold  is  that  heart  in  which  were  met 
More  virtues  than  could  ever  die  ; 

The  morning-star  of  hope  is  set — 
The  sun  adorns  another  sky. 

O  partial  grief!  to  mourn  the  day 

So  suddenly  o'erclouded  here, 
To  rise  with  unextinguish'd  ray — 

To  shine  in  a  superior  sphere  ! 

Oft  genius  early  quits  this  sod, 

Impatient  of  a  robe  of  clay, 
Spreads  the  light  pinion,  spurns  the  clod. 

And  smiles,  and  soars,  and  steals  away  ! 

But  more  than  genius  urged  thy  flight, 
And  mark'd  the  way,  dear  youth  !  for  thee 

Henry  sprang  up  to  worlds  of  light. 
On  wings  of  immortality  ! 

Blackheatb  Hill,  24th  June,  1808. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


209 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

Too,  too  prophetic  did  thy  wild  note  swell, 

Impassion 'd  minstrel  !  when  its  pitying  wail 
Sigh'd  o'er  the  vernal  primrose  as  it  fell 

Untimely,  wither 'd  by  the  northern  gale.* 
Thou  wert  that  flower  of  promise  and  of  prime  !        % 

Whose  opening  bloom,  'mid  many  an  adverse  blast, 
Charm'd  the  lone  wanderer  through  this  desert  clime, 

But  charm'd  him  with  a  rapture  soon  o'ercast, 
To  see  thee  languish  into  quick  decay. 

Yet  was  not  thy  departing  immature  ^ 
For  ripe  in  virtue  thou  wert  reft  away. 

And  pure  in  spirit,  as  the  bless'd  are  pure  ; 
Pure  as  the  dew-drop,  freed  from  earthly  leaven. 
That  sparkles,  is  exhaled,  and  blends  with  heaven  !  f 

T.  Park. 

*  See  Clifton  Grove,  p.  16,  ed.  1803. 

t  Young,  I  think,  says  of  Narcissa,  *ehe  sparkled,  was  exhaled,  and  went  to 
HeaTeu.' 


END  OP  POETICAL  REMAINa 


PROSE   REMAINS 


OF 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE 


COJVTEJVTS. 


Letters 

213—344 

Melancholy  Hours,  No.  VII. 

-     386 

Remarks  on  the  English  Poets 

-  348 

VIII. 

390 

Sternhold  and  Hopkins 

-      350 

IX. 

-    395 

Remarks  on  the  English  Poets 

-  353 

X. 

-        402 

Cursory  Remarks  on  Tragedy 

-      356 

XI. 

-     405 

Melancholy  Hours.  No.  I. 

-  361 

XII. 

408 

11. 
III.       - 

.      364 
.  368 

REFLECTIONS. 

IV. 

-      373 

I.  On  Prayer 

.     414 

V.      - 

-  377 

II.           .... 

417 

VI. 

-      382 

III. 

-     420 

LETTERjS. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  September,  1799. 
DEAR  BROTHER, 

In  consequence  of  your  repeated  solicitations,  I  now 
sit  down  to  write  to  you,  although  I  never  received  an 
answer  to  the  last  letter  which  I  wrote,  nearly  six 
months  ago  ;  but,  as  I  never  heard  you  mention  it  in 
any  of  my  mother's  letters,  I  am  induced  to  think  it  has 
miscarried,  or  been  mislaid  in  your  office. 

It  is  now  nearly  four  months  since  I  entered  into  Mr. 
Coldham's  office  ;  and  it  is  with  pleasure  I  can  assure 
you,  that  I  never  yet  found  anything  disagreeable,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  everything  I  do  seems  a  pleasure  to  me, 
and  for  a  very  obvious  reason, — it  is  a  business  which  I 
like — a  business  which  I  chose  before  all  others  ;  and  I 
have  two  good-tempered,  easy  masters,  but  who  will, 
nevertheless,  see  that  their  business  is  done  in  a  neat 
and  proper  manner.  The  study  of  the  law  is  well 
known  to  be  a  dry,  difficult  task,  and  requires  a  compre- 
hensive, good  understanding  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  allow 
me  (without  charging  me  with  egotism)  to  have  a  tolera- 
ble one  ;  and  I  trust  with  perseverance,  and  a  very  large 
law  library  to  refer  to,  I  shall  be  able  to  accomplish  the 
study  of  so  much  of  the  laws  of  England,  and  our  sys- 
tem of  jurisprudence,  in  less  than  five  years,  as  to  enable 
me  to  be  a  country  attorney  ;  and  then,  as  I  shall  have 
two  more  years  to  serve,  I  hope  I  shall  attain  so  much 
knowledge  in  all  parts  of  the  law,  as  to  enable  me,  with 
a  little  study  at  the  inns  of  court,  to  hold  an  argument 


2i4  COMPLETE    WORKS 

on  the  nice  points  in  the  law  with  the  best  attorney  in 
the  kingdom.  A  man  that  understands  the  law  is  sure 
to  have  business  ;  and  in  case  I  have  no  thoughts,  in 
case  that  is,  that  I  do  not  aspire  to  hold  the  honorable 
place  of  a  barrister,  I  shall  feel  sure  of  gaining  a  genteel 
livelihood  at  the  business  to  which  I  am  articled. 

I  attend  at  the  office  at  eight  in  the  morning,  and 
leave  at  eight  in  the  evening  ;  then  attend  my  Latin  un- 
til nine,  which,  you  may  be  sure,  is  pretty  close  confine- 
ment. 

Mr.  Coldham  is  clerk  to  the  commercial  commissioners, 
which  has  occasioned  us  a  deal  of  extraordinary  work. 
I  worked  all  Sunday,  and  until  twelve  o'clock  on  Satur- 
day night,  when  they  were  hurried  to  give  in  the  cer- 
tificates to  the  bank.  We  had  also  a  very  troublesome 
cause  last  assizes.  The  Corporation  versus  Gee,  which 
we  (the  attorneys  for  the  corporation)  lost.  It  was 
really  a  very  fatiguing  day,  (I  mean  the  day  on  which 
it  was  tried.)  I  never  got  anything  to  eat,  from  five  in 
the  afternoon  the  preceding  day,  until  twelve  the  next 
night,  when  the  trial  ended. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  26  June,  1800. 
DEAR  BROTHER, 

*  #  *  »  * 

My  mother  has  allowed  me  a  good  deal  lately  for 
books,  and  I  have  a  large  assortment  (a  retailer's  phrase.) 
But  I  hope  you  do  not  suppose  they  consist  of  novels  ; — 
no — I  have  made  a  firm  resolution  never  to  spend  above 
one  hour  at  this  amusement.  Though  I  have  been 
obliged  to  enter  into  this  resolution  in  consequence  of  a 
vitiated  taste  acquired  by  reading  romances,  I  do  not 
intend  to  banish  them  entirely  from  my  desk.  After 
long  and  fatiguing  researches  in  Blackstone  or  Coke, 
when  the  mind  becomes  weak,  through  intense  appli- 
cation, Tom  Jones,  or  Robinson  Crusoe,  will  afford  a 
pleasing  and  necessary  relaxation. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  215 

Apropos — now  we  are  speaking  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
I  shall  observe,  that  is  allowed  to  be  the  best  novel  for 
youth  in  the  English  language.  De  Foe,  the  author, 
was  a  singular  character ;  but  as  I  make  no  doubt  you 
have  read  his  life,  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  any  fur- 
ther remarks. 

The  books  which  I  now  read  with  attention,  are 
Blackstone,  Knox's  Essays,  Plutarch,  Chesterfield's  Let- 
ters, four  large  volumes,  Virgil,  Homer,  and  Cicero, 
and  several  others.  Blackstone  and  Knox,  Virgil  and 
Cicero,  I  have  got  ;  the  others  I  read  out  of  Mr.  Cold- 
ham's  library.  I  have  finished  Rollin's  Ancient  History, 
Blair's  Lectures,  Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations,  Hume's 
England,  and  British  Nepos,  lately.  When  I  have  read 
Knox  I  will  send  it  you,  and  recommend  it  to  your  at- 
tentive perusal  ;  it  is  a  most  excellent  work.  I  also  read 
now  the  British  Classics,  the  common  edition  of  which 
I  now  take  in  ;  it  comes  every  fortnight  ;  I  dare  say  you 
have  seen  it  ;  it  is  Cooke's  edition.  I  would  recommend 
you  also  to  read  these  ;  I  will  send  them  to  you.  I  have 
got  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  Idler,  Goldsmith's  Essays, 
and  part  of  the  Rambler.  I  will  send  you  soon  the 
fourth  number  of  the  Monthly  Preceptor.  I  am  noticed 
as  worthy  of  commendation,  and  as  aifording  an  en- 
couraging prospect  of  future  excellence. — You  will  laugh. 
I  have  also  turned  poet,  and  have  translated  an  Ode  of 
Horace  into  English  verse,  also  for  the  Monthly  Precep- 
tor, but,  unfortunately,  when  I  sent  it,  I  forgot  the  title, 
so  it  wont  be  noticed. 

I  do  not  forsake  the  flowery  paths  of  poesy,  for  that 
is  my  chief  delight  ;  I  read  the  best  poets.  Mr.  Cold- 
ham  has  got  Johnson's  complete  set,  with  their  lives  ; 
these  of  course  I  read. 

With  a  little  drudgery,  I  read  Italian — Have  got  some 
good  Italian  works,  as  Pastor  Fido,  &c.  &lc.  I  taught 
myself,  and  have  got  a  grammar. 

I  must  now  beg  leave  to  return  you  my  sincere  thanks 
for  your  kind  present.  I  like  '  La  Bruyere  the  Less ' 
very  much  ;  I  have  read  the  original  La  Bruyere  :  I 
think  him  like  Rouchefoucault.  Madame  de  Genlis  is  a 
very  able  woman. 


216  COMPLETE    WORKS 

But  I  must  now  attempt  to  excuse  my  neglect  in  not 
writing  to  you.  First,  I  have  been  very  busy  with  these 
essays  and  poems  for  the  Monthly  Preceptor.  Second, 
I  was  rather  angry  at  your  last  letter— I  can  bear  any- 
thing but  a  sneer,  and  it  was  one  continued  grin  from 
beginning  to  end,  as  were  all  the  notices  you  made  of 
me  in  my  mother's  letters,  and  I  could  not,  nor  can  I 
now,  brook  it.  I  could  say  much  more,  but  it  is  very 
late,  and  must  beg  leave  to  wish  you  good  night. 
I  am,  dear  brother. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

P.  S.  You  may  expect  a  regular  correspondence  from 
me  in  future,  but  no  sneers  ;  and  shall  be  very  obliged 
by  a  long  letter. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  25lh  June,  1800. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


You  are  inclined  to  flatter  me  when  you  compare  my 
application  with  yours  ;  in  truth,  I  am  not  half  so  assidu- 
ous as  you,  and  I  am  conscious  I  waste  a  deal  of  time 
unwittingly.  But,  in  reading,  I  am  upon  the  continual 
search  for  improvement  :  I  thirst  after  knowledge,  and 
though  my  disposition  is  naturally  idle,  I  conquer  it 
when  reading  a  useful  book.  The  plan  which  I  pursued, 
in  order  to  subdue  my  disinclination  to  dry  books,  was 
this,  to  begin  attentively  to  peruse  it,  and  continue  thus 
one  hour  every  day  ;  the  book  insensibly,  by  this  means, 
becomes  pleasing  to  you  ;  and  even  when  reading  Black- 
stone's  Commentaries,  which  are  very  dry,  I  lay  down 
the  book  with  regret. 

With  regard  to  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  I  certainly 
shall  be  agreeable  to  your  taking  it  in,  as  my  only  ob- 
jection was  the  extreme  impatience  which  I  feel  to  see 
whether  my  essays  have  been  successful  ;  but  this  niay 
be  obviated  by  your  speedy  perusal,  and  not  neglecting 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  217 

to  forward  it.  But  you  must  have  the  goodness  not  to 
begin  till  August,  as  my  bookseller  cannot  stop  it  this 
month. 

***** 
I  had  a  ticket  given  me  to  the  boxes,  on  Monday 
night,  for  the  benefit  of  Campbell,  from  Drury-Lane, 
and  there  was  such  a  riot  as  never  was  experienced  here 
before.  He  is  a  democrat,  and  the  soldiers  planned  a 
riot  in  conjunction  with  the  mob.  We  heard  the  shout- 
ing of  the  rabble  in  the  street  before  the  play  was  over  ; 
the  moment  the  curtain  dropped,  an  officer  went  into  the 
front  box,  and  gave  the  word  of  command  ;  immediately 
about  sixty  troopers  started  up,  and  six  trumpeters  in 
the  pit  played  '  God  save  the  king.'  The  noise  was 
astonishing.  The  officers  in  the  boxes  then  drew  their 
swords  ;  and  at  another  signal  the  privates  in  the  pit 
drew  their  bludgeons,  which  they  had  hitherto  conceal- 
ed, and  attacked  all  indiscriminately,  that  had  not  a  uni- 
form :  the  officers  did  the  same  with  their  swords,  and 
the  house  was  one  continued  scene  of  confusion  :  one 
pistol  was  fired,  and  the  ladies  were  fainting  in  the  lob- 
by. The  outer  doors  were  shut  to  keep  out  the  mob, 
and  the  people  jumped  on  the  stage  as  a  last  resource. 
One  of  these  noble  officers,  seeing  one  man  stand  in  the 
pit  with  his  hat  on,  jumped  over  the  division,  and  cut 
him  with  his  sword,  which  the  man  instantly  wrenched 
from  him,  and  broke,  whilst  the  officer  sneaked  back  in 
diso-race.  They  then  formed  a  troop,  and  having  emp- 
tied the  play-house,  they  scoured  the  streets  with  their 
swords,  and  returned  home  victorious.  The  players 
are,  in  consequence,  dismissed ;  and  we  have  informa- 
tions in  our  office  against  the  officers. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  Michaelmas-day,  1800. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


I  CANNOT  divine  what,  in  an  epistolary  correspondence, 
can  have  such  charms  (with  people  who  write  only  com- 
monplace occurrences)   as  to  detach  a  man  from  his 

19      .._ 


21S  COMPLETE    WORKS 

usual  affairs,  and  make  him  waste  time  and  paper  on 
what  cannot  be  of  the  least  real  benefit  to  his  corres- 
pondent. Amongst  relatives,  certainly  there  is  always 
an  incitement ;  we  always  feel  an  anxiety  for  their  wel- 
fare. But  I  have  no  friend  so  dear  to  me,  as  to  cause 
me  to  take  the  trouble  of  reading-  his  letters,  if  they  only 
contained  an  account  of  his  health,  and  the  mere  noth- 
ings of  the  day  ;  indeed,  such  an  one  would  be  unworthy 
of •  friendship.  What  then  is  requisite  to  make  one's 
correspondence  valuable  ?  I  answer,  sound  sense.  Noth- 
ing more  is  requisite  ;  as  to  the  style,  one  may  very 
readily  excuse  its  faults,  if  repaid  by  the  sentiments. 
You  have  better  natural  abilities  than  many  youth,  but  it 
is  with  regret  I  see  that  you  will  not  give  yourself  the 
trouble  of  writing  a  good  letter.  There  is  hardly  any  spe- 
cies of  composition  (in  my  opinion)  easier  than  the  epis- 
tolary; but,  my  friend,  you  never  found  any  art,  however 
trivial,  that  did  not  require  some  application  at  first.  For, 
if  an  artist,  instead  of  endeavouring  to  surmount  the  diffi- 
culties which  presented  themselves,  were  to  rest  con- 
tented with  mediocrity,  how  could  he  possibly  ever  ar- 
rive at  excellence  ?  Thus  'tis  with  you  ;  instead  of 
that  indefatigable  perseverance  which,  in  other  cases, 
is  a  leading  trait  in  your  character,  I  hear  you  say,  '  Ah, 
my  poor  brains  were  never  formed  for  letter-writing — 
I  shall  never  write  a  good  letter,'  or  some  such  phrases  ; 
and  thus  by  despairing  of  ever  arriving  at  excellence, 
you  render  yourself  hardly  tolerable.  You  may,  per- 
haps, think  this  art  beneath  your  notice,  or  unworthy 
of  your  pains  ;  if  so,  you  are  assuredly  mistaken,  for 
tliere  is  hardly  anything  which  would  contribute  more 
to  the  advancement  of  a  young  man,  or  which  is  more 
engaging. 

You  read,  I  believe,  a  good  deal  ;  nothing  could  be 
more  acceptable  to  me,  or  more  improving  to  you,  than 
making  a  part  of  your  letters  to  consist  of  your  senti- 
ments, and  opinion  of  the  books  you  peruse  ;  you  have 
no  idea  how  beneficial  this  would  be  to  yourself;  and 
that  you  are  able  to  do  it  I  am  certain.  One  of  the 
greatest  impediments  to  good  writing,  is  the  thinking 
too  much  before  you  note  down.  This,  I  think,  you  are 
not  entirely  free  from.  I  hope,  that  by  always  writing 
the  first  idea  that  presents  itself,  you  will  soon  conquer 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  319 

it ;  my  letters  are  always  the  rough  first  draught,  of  course 
there  are  many  alterations  ;  these  you  will  excuse. 

I  have  written  most  of  my  letters  to  you  in  so  negli- 
gent a  manner,  that,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to 
return  all  you  have  preserved,  sealed^  I  will  peruse  them, 
and  all  sentences  worth  preserving  I  will  extract,  and 
return. 

You  observe,  in  your  last,  that  your  letters  are  read 
with  contempt. — Do  you  speak  as  you  think  ? 

You  had  better  write  again  to  Mr. .     Between 

friends,  the  common  forms  of  the  world  in  writing  letter 
for  letter,  need  not  be  observed  ;  but  never  write  three 
without  receiving  one  in  return,  because  in  that  case 
they  must  be  thought  unworthy  of  answer. 

We  have  been  so  busy  lately,  I  could  not  answer  yours 
sooner. — Once  a  month  suppose  we  write  to  each  other. 
If  you  ever  find  that  my  correspondence  is  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  carrying  on,  inform  me  of  it,  and  it  shall 

cease. 

***** 

P.  S.  If  any  expression  in  this  be  too  harsh,  excuse 
it. — I  am  not  in  an  ill  humor,  recollect. 


TO  HIS   BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  11th  April,  1801. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

On  opening  yours,  I  was  highly  pleased  to  find  two 
and  a  half  sheets  of  paper,  and  nothing  could  exceed  my 
joy  at  so  apparently  a  long  letter,  but  upon  finding  it  con- 
sisted of  sides  filled  after  the  rate  of  five  words  in  a  line, 
and  nine  lines  in  a  page,  I  could  not  conceal  my  chagrin  ; 
and  I  am  sure  I  may  very  modestly  say,  that  one  of  my 
ordinary  pages  contains  three  of  yours  :  if  you  knew  half 
the  pleasure  I  feel  in  your  correspondence,  I  am  confi- 
dent you  would  lengthen  your  letters.  You  tantalize  me 
with  the  hopes  of  a  prolific  harvest,  and  I  find,  alas  !  a 
thin  crop,  whose  goodness  only  makes  me  lament  its 
scantiness. 

***** 

I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you,  that  I  have  obtained 


220  COMPLETE    WORKS 

the  first  prize  (of  a  pair  of  Adams's  twelve-inch  globes, 
value  three  guineas)  in  the  first  class  of  the  Monthly 
Preceptor.  The  subject  was  an  imaginary  tour  from 
London  to  Edinburgh.  It  is  printed  consequently,  and 
shall  send  it  to  you  the  very  first  opportunity.  The 
proposals  stated,  that  the  essay  was  not  to  exceed  three 
pages  when  printed — mine  takes  seven  ;  therefore  I  am 
astonished  they  gave  me  the  first  prize.  There  was 
an  extraordinary  number  of  candidates ;  and  they  said 
they  never  had  a  greater  number  of  excellent  ones,  and 
they  wished  they  could  have  given  thirty  prizes.     Yoa 

will  find  it  (in  a  letter)  addressed  to  N ,  meaning 

yourself. 

***** 

Warton  is  a  poet  from  whom  I  have  derived  the  most 
exquisite  pleasure  and  gratification.  He  abounds  in 
sublimity  and  loftiness  of  thought,  as  well  as  expression. 
His  '  Pleasures  of  Melancholy'  is  truly  a  sublime  poem. 
The  following  passage  I  particularly  admire  : 

*  Nor  undelightful  in  the  solemn  noon 

Of  night,  where,  haply  wakeful  from  my  couch 

I  start,  lo,  all  is  motionless  around  ! 

Roars  not  the  lushing  wind;  the  sons  of  men. 

And  every  beast,  in  mute  oblivion  lie  : 

All  Nature's  hush'd  in  silence,  and  in  sleep. 

Oh,  then,  how  fearful  is  it  to  reflect, 

That  through  the  still  globe's  awful  solitude 

No  being  wakes  but  me.' 

How  affecting  are  the  latter  lines  !  it  is  impossible  to 
withstand  the  emotions  which  rise  on  its  perusal,  and  I 
envy  not  that  man  his  insensibility  who  can  read  them 
with  apathy.  Many  of  the  pieces  of  the  Bible  are  writ- 
ten in  this  sublime  manner  :  one  psalm,  I  think  the  ISth, 
is  a  perfect  master-piece,  and  has  been  imitated  by  many 
poets.  Compare  these,  or  the  above  quoted  from  War- 
ton,  with  the  finest  piece  in  Pope,  and  then  judge  of  the 
rank  which  he  holds  as  a  poet.  Another  instance  of  the 
sublime  in  poetry  I  will  give  you,  from  Akenside's  admi- 
rable '  Pleasures  of  Imagination,'  where,  speaking  of  the 
soul  he  says,  she 

'  Rides  on  the  voUied  lightning  through  the  heavens, 
And  yoked  Avith  whirlwinds,  and  the  northern  blast> 
Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day.' 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  221 

Many  of  these  instances  of  sublimity  will  occur  to  you  in 
Thomson. 

James  begs  leave  to  present  you  with  Bloomfield's 
Farmer's  Boy.  Bloomfield  has  no  grandeur  or  height ; 
he  is  a  pastoral  poet,  and  the  simply  sweet  is  what  you 
are  to  expect  from  him ;  nevertheless,  his  descriptions 
are  sometimes  little  inferior  to  Thomson. 
***** 

How  pleased  should  I  be,  Neville,  to  have  you  with 
us  at  Nottingham  !  Our  fire-side  would  be  delightful. — 
I  should  profit  by  your  sentiments  and  experience,  and 
you  possibly  might  gain  a  little  from  my  small  bookish 
knowledge.  But  I  am  afraid  that  time  will  never  come  ; 
your  time  of  apprenticeship  is  nearly  expired,  and,  in  all 
appearance,  the  small  residue  that  yet  remains  will  ,be 
passed  in  hated  London.  When  you  are  emancipated, 
you  will  have  to  mix  in  the  bustle  of  the  world,  in  all 
probability,  also,  far  from  home  ;  so  that  when  we  have 
just  learned  how  happy  we  might  mutually  make  our- 
selves, we  find  scarcely  a  shadow  of  a  probability  of 
ever  having  the  opportunity.  Well,  well,  it  is  in  vain 
to  resist  the  immutable  decrees  of  fate. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  April,  1801. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

As  I  know  you  will  participate  with  me  in  the  pleas- 
ure I  receive  from  literary  distinctions,  I  hasten  to  inform 
you,  that  my  poetical  Essay  on  Gratitude  is  printed  in 
this  month's  Preceptor  ;  that  my  remarks  on  Warton  are 
promised  insertion  in  the  next  month's  Mirror ;  and  that 
my  Essay  on  Truth  is  printed  in  the  present  (April) 
Monthly  Visitor.  The  Preceptor  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
send  you  until  the  end  of  this  month.  The  Visitor  you 
will  herewith  receive.  The  next  month's  Mirror  I  shall 
consequently  buy.  I  wish  it  were  not  quite  so  expen- 
sive, as  I  think  it  a  very  good  work.  Benjamin  Thom- 
son, Capel  Lofft,  Esq.,  Robert  Bloomfield,  Thomas  Der- 
mody,  Mr.  Gilchrist,  under  the  signature  of  Octavius, 
I9*..._ .  .   


222  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Mrs.  Blore,  a  noted  female  writer,  under  the  signature 
of  Q.  Z.,  are  correspondents  ;  and  the  editors  are  not  only 
men  of  g-enius  and  taste,  but  of  the  greatest  respectabili- 
ty. As  I  shall  now  be  a  regular  contributor  to  this  work, 
and  as  I  think  it  contains  much  good  matter,  I  have 
half  an  inclination  to  take  it  in,  more  especially  as  you 
have  got  the  prior  volumes  :  but  in  the  present  state  of 
my  finances  it  will  not  be  prudent,  unless  you  accede  to 
a  proposal,  which,  I  think,  will  be  gratifying  to  yourself. 
— It  is,  to  take  it  in  conjunction  with  me  ;  by  which 
means  we  shall  both  have  the  same  enjoyment  of  it,  with 
half  the  expense.  It  is  of  little  consequence  who  takes 
them,  only  he  must  be  expeditious  in  reading  them.  If 
you  have  any  the  least  objection  to  this  scheme,  do  not 
suppress  it  through  any  regard  to  punctilio.  I  have  only 
proposed  it,  and  it  is  not  very  material  whether  you  con- 
cur or  not  ;  only  exercise  your  own  discretion. 

You  say,  (speaking  of  a  passage  concerning  you  in  my 
last,)  '  this  is  compliment  sufficient ;  the  rest  must  be 
flattery.' — Do  you  seriously,  Neville,  think  me  capable 
of  flattery  ? 

As  you  well  know  I  am  a  carping,  critical  little  dog, 
you  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  observing  that  there 
is  one  figure  in  your  last  that  savors  rather  of  the  ludi- 
crous, when  you  talk  of  a  '  butterfly  hopping  from  book 
to  book.' 

As  to  the  something  that  I  am  to  find  out,  that  is  a 
perpetual  bar  to  your  progress  in  knowledge,  &c.,  I  am 
incUned  to  think,  Doctor,  it  is  merely  conceit.  You  fancy 
that  you  cannot  write  a  letter — you  dread  its  idea  ;  you 
conceive  that  a  work  of  four  volumes  would  require  the 
labors  of  a  life  to  read  through  ;  you  persuade  yourself 
that  you  cannot  retain  what  you  read,  and  in  despair  do 
not  attempt  to  conquer  these  visionary  impediments. 
Confidence,  Neville,  in  one's  own  abilities,  is  a  sure  fore- 
runner (in  similar  circumstances  with  the  present)  of 
success.  As  an  illustration  of  this,  I  beg  leave  to  adduce 
the  example  of  Pope,  who  had  so  high  a  sense,  in  his 
youth,  or  rather  in  his  infancy,  of  his  own  capacity,  that 
there  was  nothing  of  which,  when  once  set  about,  he 
did  not  think  himself  capable  ;  and,  as  Dr.  Johnson  has 
observed,  the  natural  consequence  of  this  minute  percep- 
tion of  his  own  powers,  was  his  arriving  at  as  high  a 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

pitch  of  perfection  as  it  was  possible  for  a  man  with  his 
lew  natural  endowments  to  attain. 

*         *         *         *         * 

When  you  wish  to  read  Johnson's  Lives  o  tne  Poets, 
send  for  them  :  I  have  lately  purchased  them.  I  have 
now  a  large  library.  My  mother  allows  me  ten  pounds 
per  annum  for  clothes.  I  always  dress  in  a  respectable 
and  even  in  a  genteel  manner,  yet  I  can  make  much  less 
than  this  sum  suffice.  My  father  generally  gives  me 
one  coat  in  a  year,  and  I  make  two  serve.  I  then  re- 
ceive one  guinea  per  annum  for  keeping  my  mother's 
books  ;  one  guinea  per  annum  pocket-money  :  and  by 
other  means  I  gain,  perhaps,  two  guineas  more  per  an- 
num :  so  that  I  have  been  able  to  buy  pretty  many ;  and 
when  you  come  home,  you  will  find  me  in  my  study 
surrounded  with  books  and  papers.  I  am  a  perfect  gar- 
reteer :  great  part  of  my  library,  however,  consists  of 
professional  books.  Have  you  read  Burke  on  the  Sub- 
lime ?  Knox's  Winter  Evening  ? — Can  lend  them  to 
you,  if  you  have  not. 

Really,  Neville,  were  you  fully  sensible  how  much 
my  time  is  occupied,  principally  about  my  profession,  as 
a  primary  concern,  and  in  the  hours  necessarily  set 
apart  to  relaxation,  on  polite  literature,  to  which,  as  a 
hobby-horse,  I  am  very  desirous  of  paying  some  atten- 
tion, you  would  not  be  angry  at  my  delay  in  writing,  or 
my  short  letters.  It  is  always  with  joy  that  I  devote  a 
leisure  hour  to  you,  as  it  affords  you  gratification  ;  and 
rest  assured,  that  I  always  participate  in  your  pleasure, 
and  poignantly  feel  every  adverse  incident  which  causes 
you  pain. 

Permit  me,  however,  again  to  observe,  that  one  of  my 
sheets  is  equal  to  two  of  yours  ;  and  I  cannot  but  con- 
sider this  is  a  kind  of  fallacious  deception,  for  you 
always  think  that  your  letters  contain  so  much  more 
than  mine  because  they  occupy  more  room.  If  you 
were  to  count  the  words,  the  difierence  would  not  be 
so  great.  You  must  also  take  in  account  the  unsealed 
communications  to  periodical  works,  which  I  now  reckon 
a  part  of  my  letter  ;  and  therefore  you  must  excuse  my 
concluding  on  the  first  sheet,  by  assuring  you  that  I  still 
remain  Your  friend  and  brother, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


224  COMPLETE    WORKS 

P.  S.  A  postscript  is  a  natural  appendage  to  a  let- 
ter.— I  only  have  to  say,  that  positively  you  shall  re- 
ceive a  six  or  eight  sheet  letter,  and  that  written  legibly, 
ere  long. 


TO  MR.  BOOTH. 

Nottingham,  August  12th,  1801. 


DEAR  SIR, 


I  MUST  beg  leave  to  apologize  for  not  having  return- 
ed my  sincere  acknowledgements  to  yourself  and  Mrs. 
Booth,  for  your  very  acceptable  presents,  at  an  earlier 
period.  I  now,  however,  acquit  myself  of  the  duty  ; 
and  assure  you,  that  from  both  of  the  works  I  have  re- 
ceived much  gratification  and  edification,  but  more  par- 
ticularly from  one  on  the  Trinity,*  a  production  which 
displays  much  erudition,  and  a  very  laudable  zeal  for 
the  true  interests  of  religion.  Religious  polemics,  in- 
deed, have  seldom  formed  a  part  of  my  studies  ;  though, 
whenever  I  happened  accidentally  to  turn  my  thoughts 
to  the  subject  of  the  Protestant  doctrine  of  the  Godhead, 
and  compared  it  with  Arian  and  Socinian,  many  doubts 
interfered,  and  I  even  began  to  think  that  the  more 
nicely  the  subject  was  investigated,  the  more  perplexed 
it  would  appear,  and  was  on  the  point  of  forming  a  reso- 
lution to  go  to  heaven  in  my  own  way,  without  meddling 
or  involving  myself  in  the  inextricable  labyrinth  of  con- 
troversial dispute,  when  I  received  and  perused  this  ex- 
cellent treatise,  which  finally  cleared  up  the  mists  which 
my  ignorance  had  conjured  around  me,  and  clearly 
pointed  out  the  real  truth.  The  intention  of  the  author 
precluded  the  possibility  of  his  employing  the  ornaments 
and  graces  of  composition  in  his  work ;  for  as  it  was 
meant  for  all  ranks,  it  must  be  suited  to  all  capacities  ; 
but  the  arguments  are  drawn  up  and  arranged  in  so 
forcible  and  perspicuous  a  manner,  and  are  written  so 
plainly,  yet  pleasingly,  that  I  was  absolutely  charmed 
with  them. 

The  '  Evangelical  Clergyman'  is  a  very  smart  piece  ; 

*  Jones  on  the  Trinity. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  225 

the  author  possesses  a  considerable  portion  of  sarcastic 
spirit,  and  no  little  acrimony,  perhaps  not  consistent 
with  the  christian  meekness  which  he  wishes  to  incul- 
cate. I  consider,  however,  that  London  would  not 
have  many  graces,  or  attractions,  if  despoiled  of  all  the 
amusements  to  which,  in  one  part  of  his  pamphlet,  he 
objects.  In  theory,  the  destruction  of  these  vicious 
recreations  is  very  fine  :  but  in  practice,  I  am  afraid  he 
would  find  it  quite  different.  *  *  *  The  other  parts 
of  this  piece  are  very  just,  and  such  as  every  person 
must   subscribe   to.      Clergymen,   in   general,    are  not 

what  they  ought  to  be  ;   and  I  think  Mr. has 

pointed  out  their  duties  very  accurately.  But  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  be  deemed  impertinent  and  tiresome,  in 
troubling  you  with  ill-timed  and  obtrusive  opinions,  aud 
beg  leave,  therefore,  to  conclude,  with  respects  to  your- 
self and  Mrs.  Booth,  by  assuring  you  that  I  am,  accord- 
ing to  custom  from  time  immemorial,  and  in  due  form, 
Dear  sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

HENRY  K.  WHITE. 


TO  MR.  CHARLESWORTH. 

Nottingham, 


DEAR  SIR, 


I  AM  sure  you  will  excuse  me  for  not  having  immedi- 
ately answered  your  letter,  when  I  relate  the  cause. — I 
was  preparing,  at  that  moment  when  I  received  yours, 
a  volume  of  poems  for  the  press,  which  I  shall  shortly 
see  published.  I  finished  and  sent  them  off  for  London 
last  night ;  and  I  now  hasten  to  acknowledge  your 
letter. 

I  am  very  happy  that  any  poem  of  mine  should  meet 
with  your  approbation.  I  prefer  the  cool  and  dispassion- 
ate praise  of  the  discriminate  few,  to  the  boisterous  ap- 
plause of  the  crowd. 

Our  professions  neither  of  them  leave  much  leisure 
for  the  study  of  polite  literature,  I  myself  have,  however, 
coined  time,  if  you  will  allow  the  metaphor  ;  and  while  I 
have  made  such  a  proficiency  in  the  law,  as  has  ensured 
me  the  regard  of  my  governors^  I  have  paid  my  secret 


COMPLETE    WORKS 

devoirs  to  the  ladies  of  Helicon.  My  draughts  at  the 
'fountain  Arethuse,'  it  is  true,  have  been  principally 
made  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  even  the  guardian 
nymphs  of  the  well  may  be  supposed  to  have  slept ;  they 
are,  consequently,  stolen  and  forced.  I  do  not  see  any- 
thing in  the  confinement  of  our  situations,  in  the  mean- 
time, which  should  separate  congenial  minds.  A  litera- 
ry acquaintance  is,  to  me,  always  valuable  ;  and  a  friend, 
whether  lettered  or  unlettered,  is  highly  worth  cultiva- 
tion. I  hope  we  shall  both  of  us  have  enough  leisure  to 
keep  up  an  intimacy  which  began  very  agreeably  for 
me,  and  has  been  suffered  to  decay  with  regret. 

I  am  not  able  to  do  justice  to  your  unfortunate  friend 
Gill ;  I  knew  him  only  superficially,  and  yet  I  saw  enough 
of  his  unassuming  modesty,  and  simplicity  of  manners, 
to  feel  a  conviction  that  he  had  a  valuable  heart.  The 
verses  on  the  other  side  are  perhaps  beneath  mediocrity  ; 
they  are,  sincerely,  the  work  of  thirty  minutes  this 
morning,  and  I  send  them  to  you  with  all  their  imper- 
fections on  their  head. 

Perhaps  they  will  have  sufficient  merit  for  the  Not- 
tingham paper  ;  at  least  their  locality  will  shield  them  a 
little  in  that  situation,  and  give  them  an  interest  they 
do  not  otherwise  possess. 

Do  you  think  calling  the  Naiads  of  the  fountains 
'  Nymphs  of  Paeon'  is  an  allowable  liberty  ?  The  allu- 
sion is  to  their  healthy  and  bracing  qualities. 

The  last  line  of  the  seventh  stanza  contains  an  appar- 
ent pleonasm,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  and  yet  it  was  not 
written  as  such.  The  idea  was  from  the  shriek  of  Death 
(personified)  and  the  scream  of  the  dying  man.  / 


ELEGY 

Occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill  who  was  drowned  in  the  River  Trent,  while  bathin", 
9th  August,  1802. 

1. 

He  sunk — tli'  impetuous  river  roU'd  along, 

The  sullen  wave  betray'd  his  dying  breath ; 
And  rising  sad  the  rustling  sedge  among, 

The  gale  of  evening  touch'd  the  cords  of  death. 

2. 

Nymph  of  the  Trent !  why  didst  not  thou  appear 
To  snatch  the  victim  from  thy  felon  wave  ! 


227 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

Alas  !  too  late  thou  cam'st  to  embalm  his  bier. 
And  deck  with  water-flags  his  early  grave. 

3. 

Triumphant,  riding  o'er  its  tumid  prey, 
Rolls  the  red  stream  in  sanguinary  pride ; 

While  anxious  crowds,  in  vain,  expectant  stay, 
And  ask  the  swob  corse  from  the  murdermg  tide. 

4. 

The  stealing  tear-drop  stagnates  in  the  eye, 
The  sudden  sigh  by  friendship's  bosom  proved, 

I  mark  them  rise— I  mark  the  general  sigh; 
Unhappy  youth !  and  wert  thou  so  belovfed  ^ 

5. 

On  thee,  as  lone  I  trace  the  Trent's  green  brink. 
When  the  dim  twilight  slumbers  on  the  glade ; 

On  thee  my  thoughts  shall  dwell,  nor  Fancy  shrink 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  thy  shade. 

6. 

Of  thee,  as  early  I,  with  vagrant  feet, 

Hail  the  gray-sandal'd  morn  in  Colwick  s  vale, 

Of  thee  my  sylvan  reed  shall  warble  sweet, 
And  wild-wood  echoes  shall  repeat  the  tale. 

7. 
And,  oh  !  ye  nymphs  of  Pffion  !  who  preside 

O'er  running  rill  and  salutary  stream. 
Guard  ve  in  future  well  the  halcyon  tide 

From  the  rude  Death-shriek  and  the  dying  scream. 


TO  MR.  M.  HARRIS. 

Nottingham,  28th  March,  1802.       '.  ^ 
DEAR  SIR, 

I  WAS  greatly  surprised  at  your  letter  of  the  twenty- 
seventh,  for  I  had  in  reality  given  you  up  for  lost.     1 
should  long  since  have  written  to  you,  in  answer  to  your 
note  about  the  Lexicon,  but  was  perfectly  ignorant  ot 
the  place  of  your  abode.     For  anything  I  knew  to  the 
contrary,  you  might  have  been  quaffing  the  juice  of  the 
cocoa-nut  under  the  broad  bananas  of  the  Indies,  breath- 
incr  the  invigorating  air  of  liberty  in  the  broad  savan- 
na's of  America,  or  sweltering  beneath  the  line.     1  naa, 
however,  even  then,  some  sort  of  a  presentiment  that 
you  were  not  quite  so  far  removed  from  our  foggy  atmos- 
phere, but  not  enough  to  prevent  me  from  being  aston- 
ished at  findinc:  you  so  near  us  as  Leicester.     You  tell 


COMPLETE    WORKS 

me  I  must  not  ask  you  what  you  are  doing ;  I  am,  never- 
theless, very  anxious  to  know  ;  not  so  much,  I  flatter 
myself,  from  any  inquisitiveness  of  spirit,  as  from  a  de- 
sire to  hear  of  your  welfare.  Why,  my  friend,  did  you 
leave  us  ?  possessing,  as  you  did,  if  not  exactly  the  otium 
cum  dignitate^  something  very  like  it ;  having  every  com- 
fort and  enjoyment  at  your  call,  which  the  philosophical 
mind  can  find  pleasure  in  ;  and,  above  all,  blessed  with 
that  easy  competence,  that  sweet  independence,  which 
renders  the  fatigues  of  employment  supportable,  and 
even  agreeable. 

Quod  satis  est,  cui  contingit,  nihil  amplius  optet. 

Certainly,  to  a  man  of  your  disposition,  no  situation 
could  have  more  charms  than  yours  at  the  Trent-Bridge. 
I  regard  those  hours  which  I  spent  with  you  there, 
while  the  moon-beam  was  trembhng  on  the  waters,  and 
the  harp  of  Eolus  was  giving  us  its  divine  swells  and 
dying  falls,  as  the  most  sweetly  tranquil  of  my  life. 
***** 

I  have  applied  myself  rather  more  to  Latin  than  to 
Greek  since  you  left  us.  I  make  use  of  Schrevelius' 
Lexicon,  but  shall  be  obliged  to  you  to  buy  me  the  Park- 
hurst,  at  any  decent  price,  if  possible.  Can  you  tell  me 
any  mode  of  joining  the  letters  in  writing  in  the  Greek 
character  ^  I  find  it  difficult  enough.  The  following  is 
my  manner ;  is  it  right  ^ 

***** 

I  can  hardly  flatter  myself  that  you  will  give  yourself 
the  trouble  of  corresponding  with  me,  as  all  the  advan- 
tage would  be  on  my  side,  without  anything  to  compen- 
sate for  it  on  yours  ;  but — but  in  fact  I  do  not  know  what 
to  say  further, — only,  that  whenever  you  shall  think  me 
worthy  of  a  letter,  I  shall  be  highly  gratified. 


TO  HIS   BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  10th  February,  1803. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

***** 

Now  with  regard  to  the  subscription,  I  shall  certainly 
agree  to  this  mode  of  publication,  and  I  am  very  much 


OF   H.    K.    WHITE.  229 

obliged  to  you  for  what  you  say  regarding  it.  But  we 
must  wait  (except  among  your  private  friends)  until  we 
get  Lady  Derby's  answer,  and  Proposals  are  printed. 
I  think  we  shall  readily  raise  350,  though  Nottingham 
is  the  worst  place  imaginable  for  anything  of  that  kind. 
Even  envy  will  interfere.  I  shall  send  proposals  to 
Chesterfield,  to  my  uncle  ;  to  Sheffield,  to  Miss  Gales', 
(booksellers,)  whom  I  saw  at  Chesterfield,  and  who  have 
lately  sent  me  a  pressing  invitation  to  S ,  accompa- 
nied with  a  desire  of  Montgomery  (the  Poet  Paul  Positive) 
to  see  me  ;  to  Newark — Allen  and  Wright,  my  friends 
there,  (the  latter  a  bookseller  ; )  and  I  think  if  they  were 
stitched  up  with  all  the  Monthly  Mirrors,  it  would  pro- 
mote the  subscription.  You  are  not  to  take  any  money  : 
that  would  be  absolute  begging  :  the  subscribers  put 
down  their  names,  and  pay  the  bookseller  of  whofn  they 
get  the  copy. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  10th  March,  1803. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


I  AM  cured  of  patronage  hunting  ;  I  will  not  expose 
myself  to  any  more  similar  mortifications,  but  shall 
thank  you  to  send  the  manuscripts  to  Mr.  Hill,  with  a 
note,  stating  that  I  had  written  to  the  Dutchess,  and  re- 
ceiving no  answer,  you  had  called,  and  been  informed 
by  a  servant,  that  in  all  probability  she  never  read  the 
letter,  as  she  desired  to  know  ichat  the  book  was  left  there 
for ;  that  you  had  in  consequence,  come  away  with  the 
manuscripts,  under  a  conviction  that  your  brother  would 
give  Her  Grace  no  further  trouble.  State  also,  that  you 
have  received  a  letter  from  me,  expressing  a  desire  that 
the  publication  might  be  proceeded  on  without  any  fur- 
ther solicitation  or  delay. 

A  name  of  eminence  was,  nevertheless,  a  most  de- 
sirable thing  to  me  in  Nottingham,  as  it  would  attach 
more  respectability  to  the  subscription  ;  but  I  see  ail  fur- 
ther efforts  will  only  be  productive  of  procrastination. 
20 


2S0  COMPLETE   WORKS 

***** 

I  think  you  may  as  well  begin  to  obtain  subscribers 
amongst  friends  now,  though  the  proposals  may  not  be 
issued  at  present. 

I  have  got  twenty-three,  without  making  the  affair 
public  at  all,  among  my  immediate  acquaintance  :  and 
mind,  I  neither  solicit  nor  draw  the  conversation  to  the 
subject,  but  a  rumor  has  got  abroad,  and  has  been  re- 
ceived more  favorably  than  I  expected. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  2d  May,  1803. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  HAVE  just  gained  a  piece  of  intelligence  which  much 
vexes  me.  Robinson,  the  bookseller,  knows  that  I  have 
written  to  the  Dutchess  of  Devonshire,  and  he  took  the 
liberty  (certainly  an  unwarrantable  one)  to  mention  it 
to  *  *  *,  whose  *  *  *  was  inscribed  to  Her 
Grace.  Mr.  *  *  *  said,  that  unless  I  had  got  a  friend 
to  deliver  the  poems,  personally,  into  the  hands  of  Her 
Grace,  it  was  a  hundred  to  one  that  they  ever  reached 
her  ;  that  the  porter  at  the  lodge  burns  scores  of  letters 
and  packets  a  day,  and  particularly  all  letters  by  the  two- 
penny post  are  consigned  to  the  fire.  The  rest,  if  they 
are  not  particularly  excepted,  as  inscribed  with  a  pass 
name  on  the  back,  are  thrown  into  a  closet,  to  be  reclaim- 
ed at  leisure.  He  said,  the  way  he  proceeded  was  this: 
—He  left  his  card  at  her  door,  and  the  next  day  called, 
and  was  admitted.  Her  Grace  then  gave  him  permis- 
sion, with  this  proviso,  that  the  dedication  was  as  short 
as  possible,  and  contained  no  compliments,  as  the  Duke 
had  taken  offence  at  some  such  compliments. 

Now,  as  my  letter  was  delivered  by  you  at  the  door, 
I  have  scarcely  a  doubt  that  it  is  classed  with  the  pen- 
ny-post letters,  and  burnt.  If  my  manuscripts  are 
destroyed,  I  am  ruined,  but  I  hope  it  is  otherwise. 
However,  1  think  you  had  better  call  immediately,  and 
ask  for  a  parcel  of  Mr.  H.  White,  of  Nottingham.  They 
will,  of  course,  say  they  have  no  such  parcel ;  and  then. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  231 

perhaps,  you  may  have  an  opportunity  of  asking  whether 
a  packet,  left  in  the  manner  you  left  mine,  had  any  pro- 
bability of  reaching  the  Dutchess.  If  you  obtain  no  sat- 
isfaction, there  remains  no  way  of  re-obtaining  my  vol- 
ume but  this  (and  I  fear  you  will  never  agree  to  put  in 
execution  ;)  to  leave  a  card,  with  your  name  inscribed, 
(Mr.  J.  N.  White,)  and  call  the  next  day.  If  you  are 
admitted,  you  will  state  to  Her  Grace  the  purport  of  your 
errand,  ask  for  a  volume  of  poems  in  manuscript,  sent 
by  your  brother  a  fortnight  ago,  with  a  letter,  (say  from 
Nottingham,  as  a  reason  why  I  do  not  wait  on  her,)  re- 
questing permission  of  dedication  to  her  ;  and  that  as  you 
found  Her  Grace  had  not  received  them,  you  had  taken 
the  liberty,  after  many  inquiries  at  her  door,  to  request 
to  see  her  in  person. 

I  hope  your  diffidence  will-  not  be  put  to  this  test ; 
I  hope  you  will  get  the  poems  without  trouble  :  as  for 
begging  patronage,  I  am  tired  to  the  soul  of  it,  and 
shall  give  it  up. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 1803. 

DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  WRITE  you,  with  intelligence  of  a  very  important 
nature.  You  some  time  ago  had  an  intimation  of  my 
wish  to  enter  the  church,  in  case  my  deafness  was  not 
removed. — About  a  week  ago  I  became  acquainted  with 

the  Rev. ,  late  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge, 

and  in  consequence  of  what  he  has  said,  I  have  finally 
determined  to  enter  myself  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, with  the  approbation  of  all  my  friends. 

Mr. says  that  it  is  a  shame  to  keep  me  away 

from  the  university,  and  that  circumstances  are  of  no 
importance.  He  s'^ys,  that  if  I  am  entered  of  Trinity, 
where  they  are  all  select  men^  I  must  necessarily^  with  my 
abilities,  arrive  at  preferment.  He  says  he  will  be  an- 
swerable that  the  first  year  I  shall  obtain  a  scholarship, 
or  an  exhibition  adequate  to  my  support.  That  by  the 
time  I  have  been  of  five  years'  standing,  I  shall  of  course 


222  COMPLETE    WORKS 

become  a  Fellow  (2001.  a-year ;)  that  with  the  Fellow- 
ship I  may  hold  a  Professorship,  (5001.  per  annum,)  and 
a  living  or  curacy,  until  better  preferments  occur.  He 
says,  that  there  is  no  uncertainty  in  the  church  to  a  truly 
pious  man,  and  a  man  of  abilities  and  eloquence.  That 
those  who  are  unprovided  for,  are  generally  men  who, 
having  no  interest,  are  idle  drones,  or  dissolute  debau- 
chees, and  therefore  ought  not  to  expect  advancement. 
That  a  poet,  in  particular,  has  the  means  of  patronage 
in  his  pen  :  and  that,  in  one  word,  no  young  man  can 
enter  the  church  (except  he  be  of  family)  with  better 
prospects  than  myself.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Enfield 
has  himself  often  observed,  that  my  deafness  will  be  an 
insuperable  obstacle  to  me  as  an  attorney,  and  has  said 
how  unfortunate  a  thing  it  was  for  me  not  to  have  known 
of  the  growing  defect,  in  my  organs  of  hearing,  before 
I  articled  myself.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  con- 
ceive I  should  be  culpable  did  I  let  go  so  good  an  oppor- 
tunity as  now  occurs.     Mr. will  write  to  all  his 

university  friends,  and  he  says  there  is  so  much  liberali- 
ty there,  that  they  will  never  let  a  young  man  of  talents 
be  turned  from  his  studies  by  want  of  cash. 

Yesterday  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Enfield,  and  he,  with  unex- 
ampled generosity,  said  that  he  saw  clearly  what  an  ad- 
vantageous thing  it  would  be  for  me  ;  that  I  must  be 
sensible  what  a  great  loss  he  and  Mr.  Coldham  would 
suffer ;  but  that  he  was  certain  neither  he,   nor  Mr. 

C ,  could  oppose  themselves   to  anything  which 

was  so  much  to  my  advantage.  When  Mr.  C re- 
turns from  London,  the  matter  will  be  settled  with  my 
mother. 

All  my  mother's  friends  seem  to  think  this  an  excel- 
lent thing  for  me,  and  will  do  all  in  their  power  to  for- 
ward me. 

Now  we  come  to  a  very  important  part  of  the  busi- 
ness— the  means.  I  shall  go  with  my  friend  Robert,  in 
the  capacity  of  Sizer^  to  whom  the  expense  is  not  more 
than  601.  per  annum.  Towards  this  sum  my  mother 
will  contribute  201.,  being  what  she  allows  me  now  for 
clothes  ;  (by  this  means  she  will  save  my  board  :)  and, 
for  the  residue,  I  must  trust  to  getting  a  Scholarship,  or 
Chapel  Clerk's  post.     But,  in  order  to  make  this  residue 


OF   H.    K.    WHITE.  233 

certain,  I  shall,  at  the  expiration  of  twelve  months,  pub- 
lish a  second  volume  of  poems  by  subscription. 
***** 

My  friend,  Mr. says,  that  so  far  as  his  means 

will  go,  I  shall  never  ask  assistance  in  vain.  He  has 
but  a  small  income,  though  of  great  family.  He  has 
just  lost  two  rectories  by  scruples  of  conscience,  and 

now  preaches  at for  801.  a-year.     The  following 

letter  he  put  into  my  hand  as  I  was  leaving  him,  after 
having  breakfasted  with  him  yesterday.  He  put  it  into 
my  hand,  and  requested  me  not  to  read  it  until  I  got 
home.  It  is  a  breach  of  trust  letting  you  see  it,  but  I 
wish  you  to  know  his  character. 
'  My  dear  Sir, 

*  I  sincerely  wish  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  render  you 
any  essential  service,  to  facilitate  your  passing  through 
College  :  believe  me,  I  have  the  icill,  but  not  the  means. 
Should  the  enclosed  be  of  any  service,  either  to  purchase 
books,  or  for  other  pocket  expenses,  I  request  your  ac- 
ceptance of  it ;  but  must  entreat  you  not  to  notice  it, 
either  to  myself,  or  any  living  creature.  I  pray  God  that 
you  may  employ  those  talents  that  he  has  given  you  to 
his  glory,  and  to  the  benefit  of  his  people.  I  have  great 
fears  for  you  ;  the  temptations  of  College  are  great. 
BeUeve  me  very  sincerely  yours, 


The  enclosure  was  21.  2s.  I  could  not  refuse  what 
was  so  delicately  offered,  though  I  was  sorry  to  take  it : 
he  is  truly  an  amiable  character. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingbam, 1803- 

DEAR  NEVILLE, 

You  may  conceive  with  what  emotions  I  read  your 
brotherly  letter  ;  I  feel  a  very  great  degree  of  aversion 
to  burdening  my  family  any  more  than  I  have  done,  and 
now  do  ;  but  an  offer  so  delicate  and  affectionate  I  can 
20* 


234  COMPLETE    WORKS 

not  refuse,  and  if  I  should  need  pecuniary  assistance, 
which  I  am  in  hopes  I  shall  not,  at  least  after  the  first  year, 
I  shall  without  a  moment's  hesitation  apply  to  my 
brother  Neville. 

My  college  schemes  yet  remain  in  a  considerable  de- 
gree of  uncertainty  ;  I  am  very  uneasy  thereabouts.  I 
have  not  heard  from  Cambridge  yet,  and  it  is  very 
doubtful  whether  there  be  a  vacant  Sizership  in  Trinity  : 
so  that  I  can  write  you  no  further  information  on  this 

head. 

***** 

I  suppose  you  have  seen  my  review  in  this  month's 
Mirror,  and  that  I  need  not  comment  upon  it ;  such  a 
review  I  neither  expected,  nor  in  fact  deserve. 

I  shall  not  send  up  the  Mirror,  this  month,  on  this  ac- 
count, as  it  is  policy  to  keep  it ;  and  you  have,  no  doubt, 
received  one  from  Mr.  Hill. 

The  errors  in  the  Greek  quotation  I  perceived  the 
moment  I  got  down  the  first  copies,  and  altered  them, 
in  most,  with  the  pen  ;  they  are  very  unlucky  ;  I  have 
sent  up  the  copies  for  the  reviews  myself,  in  order  that 
I  might  make  the  correction  in  them. 

I  have  got  now  to  write  letters  to  all  the  reviewers, 
and  hope  you  will  excuse  my  abrupt  conclusion  of  this 
letter  on  that  score. 

I  am,  dear  Neville,  affectionately  yours, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Hill  now  the  first  thing ;  I  owe 
much  to  him. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham, 


MY  DEAR  BEN, 


***** 

And  now,  my  dear  Ben,  I  must  confess  your  letter 
gave  me  much  pain  ;  there  is  a  tone  of  despondence  in 
it  which  I  must  condemn,  inasmuch  as  it  is  occasioned 
by  circumstances  which  do  not  involve  your  own  exer- 
tions, but  which  are  utterly  independent  of  yourself:  if 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  235 

you  do  your  duty,  why  lament  that  it  is  not  productive  ? 
In  whatever  situation  we  may  be  placed,  there  is  a  duty 
we  ov/e  to  God  and  religion  :  it  is  resignation  ; — nay,  I 
may  say,  contentment.  All  things  are  in  the  hands  of 
God  ;  and  shall  we  mortals  (if  we  do  not  absolutely  re- 
pine at  his  dispensations)  be  fretful  under  them  ?  I  do 
beseech  you,  my  dear  Ben,  summon  up  the  Christian 
within  you,  and  steeled  with  holy  fortitude  go  on  your 
way  rejoicing  !  There  is  a  species  of  morbid  sensibility 
to  which  I  myself  have  often  been  a  victim,  which  preys 
upon  my  heart,  and,  without  giving  birth  to  one  actively 
useful  or  benevolent  feeling,  does  but  brood  on  selfish 
sorrows,  and  magnify  its  own  misfortunes.  The  evils 
of  such  a  sensibility,  I  pray  to  God  you  may  never  feel  ; 
but  I  would  have  you  beware,  for  it  grows  on  persons 
of  a  certain  disposition  before  they  are  aware  of  it. 

I  am  sorry  my  letter  gave  you  pain,  and  I  trust  my 
suspicions  were  without  foundation.  Time,  my  dear 
Ben,  is  the  discoverer  of  hearts,  and  I  feel  a  sweet  con- 
fidence that  he  will  knit  ours  yet  more  closely  together. 

I  believe  my  lot  in  life  is  nearly  fixed ;  a  month  will 
tell  me  whether  I  am  to  be  a  minister  of  Christ,  in  the 
established  church,  or  out.  One  of  the  two,  I  am  now 
finally  resolved,  if  it  please  God,  to  be.  I  know  my  own 
unworthiness  :  I  feel  deeply  that  I  am  far  from  being 
that  pure  and  undefiled  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost  that  a 
minister  of  the  word  of  life  ought  to  be,  yet  still  I  have 
an  unaccountable  hope  that  the  Lord  will  sanctify  my 
efforts,  that  he  will  purify  me,  and  that  I  shall  become 
his  devoted  servant. 

I  am  at  present  under  afflictions  and  contentions  of 
spirit,  heavier  than  I  have  yet  ever  experienced.  I 
think,  at  times,  I  am  mad,  and  destitute  of  religion.  My 
pride  is  not  yet  subdued  :  the  unfavorable  review  (in  the 
'  Monthly ')  of  my  unhappy  work,  has  cut  deeper  than 
you  could  have  thought  ;  not  in  a  literary  point  of  view, 
but  as  it  affects  my  respectability.  It  represents  me  ac- 
tually as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering  money  to  put 
myself  at  College,  when  my  book  is  worthless  ;  and  this 
with  every  appearance  of  candor.  They  have  been  sadly 
misinformed  respecting  me  :  this  Review  goes  before  me 
wherever  I  turn  my  steps  ;  it  haunts  me  incessantly,  and 
I  am  persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Satan 


236  COMPLETE    WORKS 

to  drive  me  to  distraction.  I  must  leave  Nottingham. 
If  the  answer  of  the  Elland  Society  be  unfavorable,  I 
purpose  writing  to  the  Marquis  of  Wellesley,  to  offer  my- 
self as  a  student  at  the  academy  he  has  instituted  at 
Fort  William,  in  Bengal,  and  at  the  proper  age  to  take 
orders  there.  The  missionaries  at  that  place  have  done 
wonders  already,  and  I  should,  I  hope,  be  a  valuable 
laborer  in  the  vineyard.  If  the  Marquis  take  no  notice 
of  my  application,  or  do  not  accede  to  my  proposal,  I 
shall  place  myself  in  some  other  way  of  making  a  meet 
preparation  for  the  holy  office,  either  in  the  Calvinistic 
Academy,  or  in  one  of  the  Scotch  Universities,  where  I 
shall  be  able  to  live  at  scarcely  any  expense. 


TO  MR.  R.  A 

Nottingham,  18th  April,  1804. 
MY  DEAR  ROBERT, 

I  HAVE  just  received  your  letter.  Most  fervently  do  I 
return  thanks  to  God  for  this  providential  opening ;  it 
has  breathed  new  animation  into  me,  and  my  breast 
expands  with  the  prospect  of  becoming  the  minister  of 
Christ  where  I  most  desired  it ;  but  where  I  almost  fear- 
ed all  probability  of  success  was  nearly  at  an  end.  In- 
deed, I  had  begun  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  the  dissenters, 
as  people  of  whom  I  was  destined,  not  by  choice,  but 
necessity,  to  become  the  pastor.  Still,  although  I  knew 
I  should  be  happy  anywhere,  so  that  I  were  a  profitable 
laborer  in  the  vineyard,  I  did,  by  no  means,  feel  that 
calm,  that  indescribable  satisfaction  which  I  do,  when  I 
look  toward  that  church,  which  I  think,  in  the  main, 
formed  on  the  apostolic  model,  and  from  which  I  am 
decidedly  of  opinion  there  is  no  positive  grounds  for  dis- 
sent. I  return  thanks  to  God  for  keeping  me  so  long  in 
suspense,  for  I  know  it  has  been  beneficial  to  my  soul, 
and  I  feel  a  considerable  trust  that  the  way  is  now  about 
to  be  made  clear,  and  that  my  doubts  and  fears  on  this 
head  will,  in  due  time,  be  removed. 

Could  I  be  admitted  to  St.  John's,  I  conclude,  from 
what  I  have  heard,  that  my  provision  would  be  adequate, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  237 

not  otherwise.  From  my  mother  I  could  depend  on  15 
or  201.  a-year,  if  she  live,  toward  college  expenses,  and 
I  could  spend  the  long  vacation  at  home.  The  201.  per 
annum  from  my  brother  would  suffice  for  clothes,  &c. ; 
so  that  if  I  could  procure  201.  a-year  more,  as  you  seem 
to  think  I  may,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Martyn,  I  con- 
ceive I  might,  with  economy,  be  supported  at  College  ; 
of  this,  however,  you  are  the  best  judge. 

You  may  conceive  how  much  I  feel  obliged  by  Mr. 
Martyn  on  this  head,  as  well  as  to  you,  for  your  un- 
wearying exertions.  Truly,  friends  have  risen  up  to 
me  in  quarters  where  I  could  not  have  expected  them, 
and  they  have  been  raised,  as  it  were,  by  the  finger  of 
God.  I  have  reason,  above  all  men,  to  be  grateful  to 
the  Father  of  all  mercies  for  his  loving-kindness  towards 
me  ;  surely  no  one  can  have  had  more  experience  of  the 
fatherly  concern  with  which  God  watches  over,  protects, 
and  succours  his  chosen  seed,  than  I  have  had;  and 
surely  none  could  have  less  expected  such  a  manifesta- 
tion of  his  grace,  and  none  could  have  less  merited  its 

continuance. 

»         »         #         »         ♦ 

In  pursuance  of  your  injunction,  I  shall  lay  aside  Gro- 
tius,  and  take  up  Cicero  and  Livy,  or  Tacitus.  In  Greek 
I  must  rest  contented  for  the  ensuing  fourteen  days  with 
the  Testament ;  I  shall  then  have  conquered  the  Gospels, 
and,  if  things  go  on  smoothly,  the  Acts.  I  shall  then 
read  Homer,  and  perhaps  Plato's  Phadon,  which  I  late- 
ly picked  up  at  a  stall.  My  classical  knowledge  is  very 
superficial ;  it  has  very  Uttle  depth  or  solidity ;  but  I 
have  really  so  small  a  portion  of  leisure,  that  I  wonder 
at  the  progress  1  do  make.  I  believe  I  must  copy  the 
old  divines,  in  rising  at  four  o'clock :  for  my  evenings 
are  so  much  taken  up  with  visiting  the  sick,  and  with 
young  men  who  come  for  religious  conversation,  that 
there  is  but  little  time  for  study. 


238  COMPLETE    WORKS 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  24th  April,  1804. 


MY  DEAR  BEN, 


Truly  I  am  grieved,  that  whenever  I  undertake  to  be 
the  messenger  of  glad  tidings,  I  should  frustrate  my  own 
design,  and  communicate  to  my  good  intelligence  a  tint 
of  sadness,  as  it  were  by  contagion.  Most  joyfully  did 
I  sit  down  to  write  my  last,  as  I  knew  I  had  wherewith 
to  administer  comfort  to  you ;  and  yet,  after  all,  I  find 
that,  by  gloomy  anticipations,  I  have  converted  my  bal- 
sam into  bitterness,  and  have  by  no  means  imparted 
that  unmixed  pleasure  which  I  wished  to  do. 

Forebodings  and  dismal  calculations  are,  I  am  con- 
vinced, very  useless,  and  I  think  very  pernicious  specu- 
lations— '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.' — And 
yet  how  apt  are  we,  when  imminent  trials  molest  us,  to 
increase  the  burden  by  melancholy  ruminations  on  fu- 
ture evils  ! — evils  which  exist  only  in  our  own  imagina- 
tions— and  which,  should  they  be  realized,  will  certainly 
arrive  in  time  to  oppress  us  sufficiently  without  our  ad- 
ding to  their  existence  by  previous  apprehension,  and 
thus  voluntarily  incurring  the  penalty  of  misfortunes  yet 
in  perspective,  and  trials  yet  unborn.  Let  us  guard, 
then,  I  beseech  you,  against  these  ungrateful  divinations 
into  the  womb  of  futurity — we  know  our  affairs  are  in 
the  hands  of  one  who  has  wisdom  to  do  for  us  beyond 
our  narrow  prudence,  and  we  cannot,  by  taking  thought, 
avoid  any  afflictive  dispensation  which  God's  providence 
may  have  in  store  for  us.  Let  us  therefore  enjoy  with 
thankfulness  the  present  sunshine,  without  adverting  to 
the  coming  storm.  Few  and  transitory  are  the  inter- 
vals of  calm  and  settled  day  with  which  Ave  are  cheered 
in  the  tempestuous  voyage  of  life  ;  we  ought  therefore 
to  enjoy  them,  while  they  last,  with  unmixed  delight, 
and  not  turn  the  blessing  into  a  curse  by  lamenting  that 
it  cannot  endure  without  interruption.  We,  my  beloved 
friend,  are  united  in  our  affections  by  no  common  bands 
— bands  which,  I  trust,  are  too  strong  to  be  easily  dis- 
severed— yet  we  know  not  what  God  may  intend  with 
respect  to  us,  nor  have  we  any  business  to  inquire — we 
should  rely  on  the  mercy  of  our  Father,  who  is  in  hea- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  239 

ven — and  if  we  are  to  anticipate,  we  should  hope  the 
best.  I  stand  self-accused  therefore  for  my  prurient, 
and,  I  may  say,  irreligious  fears.  A  prudent  foresight, 
as  it  may  guard  us  from  many  impending  dangers,  is 
laudable ;  but  a  morbid  propensity  to  seize  and  brood 
over  future  ills,  is  agonizing,  while  it  is  utterly  useless, 
and  therefore  ought  to  be  repressed. 

I  have  received  intelligence,  since  writing  the  above, 
which  nearly  settles  my  future  destination.  A in- 
forms me  that  Mr.  Martyn,  a  Fellow  of  St.  John's,  has 
about  201.  a-year  to  dispose  of  towards  keeping  a  reli- 
gious man  at  College — and  he  seems  convinced  that  if 
my  mother  allows  me  201.  a-year  more,  I  may  live  at  St. 
Johii's  provided  I  could  gain  admittance,  which,  at  that 
college,,  is  difficult,  unless  you  have  previously  stood  in 
the  Ust  for  a  year.  Mr.  Martyn  thinks,  if  I  propose  my- 
self immediately,  I  shall  get  upon  the  foundation,  and 
by  this  day's  post  I  have  transmitted  testimonials  of  my 
classical  acquirements.  In  a  few  days,  therefore,  I  hope 
to  hear  that  I  am  on  the  boards  of  St.  John's. 

Mr.  Dashwood  has  informed  me,  that  he  also  has  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  a  gentleman,  a  magistrate  near 
Cambridge,  offering  me  all  the  assistance  in  his  power 
towards  getting  through  the  College,  so  as  there  be  no 
obligation.     My  way  therefore  is  now  pretty  clear. 

I  have  just  risen  from  my  knees,  returning  thanks  to 
our  heavenly  Father  for  this  providential  opening — my 
heart  is  quite  full.  Help  me  to  be  grateful  to  him,  and 
pray  that  I  may  be  a  faithful  minister  of  his  word. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham 
MY  DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  SIT  down  with  unfeigned  pleasure  to  write,  in  com- 
pliance with  your  request,  that  I  would  explain  to  you 
the  real  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England,  or,  what 
is  the  same  thing,  of  the  Bible.  The  subject  is  most 
important,  inasmuch  as  it  affects  that  part  of  man  which 
is  incorruptible,  and  which  must  exist  forever — his  soul. 


240  COMPLETE    WORKS 

When  God  made  the  brute  creation,  he  merely  embodi- 
ed the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  gave  it  the  power  of  loco- 
motion, or  of  moving  about,  and  of  existing  in  a  certain 
sphere.  In  order  to  afford  mute  animals  a  rule  of  ac- 
tion, by  which  they  might  be  kept  alive,  he  implanted 
in  them  certain  instincts,  from  which  they  can  never 
depart.  Such  is  that  of  self-preservation,  and  the  selec- 
tion of  proper  food.  But  he  not  only  endued  man  with 
these  powers,  but  he  gave  him  mind^  or  spirit — a  fac- 
ulty which  enables  him  to  ruminate  on  the  objects  which 
he  does  not  see — to  compare  impressions — to  invent — and 
to  feel  pleasure  and  pain,  when  their  causes  are  either 
gone  or  past,  or  lie  in  the  future.  This  is  what  consti- 
tutes the  human  soul.  It  is  an  immaterial  essence — no 
one  knows  what  it  consists  of,  or  where  it  resides  ;  the 
brain  and  the  heart  are  the  organs  which  it  most  seems 
to  affect ;  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  infer  therefrom,  that 
the  material  organs  of  the  heart  and  the  brain  consti- 
tute the  soul,  seeing  that  the  impressions  of  the  mind 
sometimes  affect  one  organ  and  sometimes  the  other. 
Thus,  when  any  of  the  passions — love,  hope,  fear,  pleas- 
ure, or  pain,  are  excited,  we  feel  them  at  our  heart. 
When  we  discuss  a  topic  of  cool  reasoning,  the  process 
is  carried  on  in  the  brain ;  yet  both  parts  are  in  a  great- 
er or  less  degree  acted  upon  on  all  occasions,  and  we 
may  therefore  conclude,  that  the  soul  resides  in  neither 
individually,  but  is  an  immaterial  spirit,  which  occasion- 
ally impresses  the  one,  and  occasionally  the  other.  That 
the  soul  is  immaterial,  has  been  proved  to  a  mathemati- 
cal demonstration.  When  we  strike,  we  lift  up  our  arm 
— when  we  walk,  we  protrude  our  legs  alternately — but 
when  we  think,  we  move  no  organ  :  the  reason  depends 
on  no  action  of  matter,  but  seems  as  it  were  to  hover 
over  us,  to  regulate  the  machine  of  our  bodies,  and  to 
meditate  and  speculate  on  things  abstract  as  well  as  sim- 
ple, extraneous  as  well  as  connected  with  our  individu- 
al welfare,  without  having  any  bond  which  can  imite  it 
with  our  gross  corporal  bodies.  The  flesh  is  like  the 
temporary  tabernacle  which  the  soul  inhabits,  governs, 
and  regulates  ;  but  as  it  does  not  consist  in  any  organi- 
zation of  matter,  our  bodies  may  die,  and  return  to  the 
dust  from  whence  they  were  taken,  while  our  souls— -in- 
corporal  essences — are  incapable  of  death  and  annihila- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  241 

tion.  The  spirit  is  that  portion  of  God's  own  immortal 
nature,  which  he  breathed  into  our  clay  at  our  birth, 
and  which  therefore  cannot  be  destroyed,  but  will  con- 
tinue to  exist  when  its  earthly  habitation  is  mingled 
with  its  parent  dust.  We  must  admit,  therefore,  what 
all  ages  and  nations,  savage  as  well  as  civilized,  have 
acknowledged,  that  we  have  souls,  and  that,  as  they 
are  incorporal,  they  do  not  die  with  our  bodies,  but  are 
necessarily  immortal.  The  question  then  naturally  aris- 
es, what  becomes  of  them  after  death  ?  Here  man  of 
his  own  wisdom  must  stop  : — but  God  has  thought  fit, 
in  his  mercy,  to  reveal  to  us  in  a  great  measure  the  se- 
cret of  our  natures,  and  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  we  find 
a  plain  and  intelligible  account  of  the  purposes  of  our 
existence,  and  the  things  we  have  to  expect  in  the  world 
to  come.  And  here  I  shall  just  remark,  that  the  authen- 
ticity and  divine  inspiration  of  Moses  are  established  be- 
yond a  doubt,  and  that  no  learned  man  can  possibly  deny 
their  authority.  Over  all  nations,  even  among  the 
savages  of  America,  cut  out  as  it  were  from  the  eastern 
world,  there  are  traditions  extant  of  the  flood,  of  Noah, 
jMoses,  and  other  patriarchs,  by  names  which  come  so 
near  the  proper  ones,  as  to  remove  all  doubt  of  their 
identity.  You  know  mankind  is  continually  increasing 
in  number ;  and  consequently,  if  you  make  a  calculation 
backwards,  the  numbers  must  continue  lessening  and 
lessening,  until  you  come  to  a  point  where  there  was 
only  one  man.  Well,  according  to  the  most  probable 
calculation,  this  point  will  be  found  to  be  about  5,800 
years  back,  viz.  the  time  of  the  creation,  making  allow- 
ance for  the  flood.  Moreover,  there  are  appearances 
upon  the  surface  of  the  globe,  which  denote  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  founded,  and  the  process  thus  developed 
will  be  found  to  agree  very  exactly  with  the  figurative 
account  of  Moses. — (Of  this  I  shall  treat  in  a  subsequent 
letter.) — Admitting  then,  that  the  books  of  the  Penta- 
teuch were  written  by  divine  inspiration,  we  see  laid 
before  us  the  whole  history  of  our  race,  and,  including 
the  Prophets,  and  the  New  Testament,  the  whole  scheme 
of  our  future  existence  :  we  learn,  in  the  first  place,  that 
God  created  man  in  a  state  of  perfect  happiness,  that  he 
was  placed  in  the  midst  of  everything  that  could  delight 
the  eye,  or  fascinate  the  mind,  and  that  he  had  only 


242  COMPLETE    WORKS 

one  command  imposed  upon  him,  which  he  was  to  keep 
under  the  penalty  of  death.  This  command  God  has 
been  pleased  to  cover  to  our  eyes  with  impenetrable 
obscurity.  Moses,  in  the  figurative  language  of  the 
East,  calls  it  eating  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge 
of  Good  and  Evil.  But  this  we  can  understand,  that 
man  rebelled  against  the  command  of  his  Maker,  and 
plunged  himself  by  that  crime  from  a  state  of  bliss  to  a 
state  of  sorrow,  and  in  the  end,  of  death. — By  death 
here  is  meant,  the  exclusion  of  the  soul  from  future  hap- 
piness. It  followed,  that  if  Adam  fell  from  bliss,  his 
posterity  must  fall,  for  the  fruit  must  be  like  the  parent 
stock  ;  and  a  man  made  as  it  were  dead,  must  likewise 
bring  forth  children  under  the  same  curse. — Evil  cannot 
beget  good. 

But  the  benign  Father  of  the  universe  had  pity  upon 
Adam  and  his  posterity,  and,  knowing  the  frailty  of  our 
nature,  he  did  not  wish  to  assume  the  whole  terrors  of 
his  just  vengeance.  Still  God  is  a  being  who  is  infinitely 
jiistj  as  well  as  infinitely  merciful^  and  therefore  his  de- 
crees are  not  to  be  dispensed  with,  and  his  offended  jus- 
tice  must  have  expiation.  The  case  of  mankind  was 
deplorable  ; — myriads  yet  unborn  were  implicated  by  the 
crime  of  their  common  progenitor  in  general  ruin.  But 
the  mercy  of  God  prevailed,  and  Jesus  Christ,  the  Mes- 
sias,  of  whom  all  ages  talked  before  he  came  down 
amongst  men,  offered  himself  up  as  an  atonement  for 
man's  crimes. — The  Son  of  God  himself,  infinite  in  mer- 
cy, offered  to  take  up  the  human  form,  to  undergo  the 
severest  pains  of  human  life,  and  the  severest  pangs  of 
death ;  he  offered  to  lie  under  the  power  of  the  grave 
for  a  certain  period,  and,  in  a  word,  to  sustain  all  the 
punishment  of  our  primitive  disobedience  in  the  stead 
of  man.  The  atonement  was  infinite ;  because  God's 
justice  was  infinite  ;  and  nothing  but  such  an  atonement 
could  have  saved  the  fallen  race. 

The  death  of  Christ  then  takes  away  the  stain  of 
original  sin,  and  gives  man  at  least  the  power  of  attaining 
eternal  bUss.  Still  our  salvation  is  conditional,  and  we 
have  certain  requisitions  to  comply  with  ere  we  can  be 
secure  of  heaven. — The  next  question  then  is.  What  are 
the  conditions  on  which  we  are  to  be  saved  ?  The  word 
of  God  here  comes  in  again  in  elucidation  of  our  duty  : 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  243 

the  chief  point  insisted  upon  is,  that  we  should  keep 
God's  Law  contained  in  the  Ten  Commandments ;  but 
as  the  omission  or  breach  of  one  article  of  the  twelve  ta- 
bles is  a  crime  just  of  as  great  magnitude  as  the  original 
sin,  and  entails  the  penalty  on  us  as  much  as  if  we  had 
infringed  the  whole,  God,  seeing  our  frailty,  provided  a 
means  of  effecting  our  salvation,  in  which  nothing  should 
be  required  of  us  bat  reliance  on  his  truth. — God  sent 
the  Saviour  to  bear  the  weight  of  our  sins  ;  he,  there- 
fore, requires  us  to  believe  implicitly,  that  through  his 
blood  we  shall  be  accepted.  This  is  the  succedaneum 
which  he  imposed  in  lieu  of  the  observance  of  the  moral 
law.  Faith  !  Believe,  and  ye  shall  be  saved. — He 
requires  from  us  to  throw  ourselves  upon  the  Redeemer, 
to  look  for  acceptance  through  him  alone,  to  regard  our- 
selves as  depraved,  debased,  fallen  creatures,  who  can 
do  nothing  worthy  in  his  sight,  and  who  only  hope  for 
mercy  through  the  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ. 
Faith  is  the  foundation-stone  ;  Faith  is  the  superstruct- 
ure ;  Faith  is  all  in  all. — 'By  Faith  are  ye  saved;  by 
Faith  are  ye  justified.' 

How  easy,  my  dear  Neville,  are  the  conditions  God 
imposes  upon  us  !  He  only  commands  us  to  feel  the  tie 
of  common  gratitude,  to  trust  in  the  mediation  of  his 
Son,  and  all  shall  be  forgiven  us.  And  shall  our  pride, 
our  deluded  imaginations,  our  false  philosophy,  interfere 
to  blind  our  eyes  to  the  beauties  of  so  benevolent,  .so 
benign  a  system  ? — Or  shall  earthly  pleasures  engross 
all  our  thoughts,  nor  leave  space  for  a  care  for  our 
souls  ? — God  forbid.  As  for  Faith,  if  our  hearts  are 
hardened,  and  we  cannot  feel  that  implicit,  that  fervent 
belief,  which  the  Scripture  requires,  let  us  pray  to  God, 
that  he  will  send  his  Holy  Spirit  down  upon  us,  that  he 
will  enlighten  our  understanding  with  the  knowledge  of 
that  truth  which  is  too  vast,  too  sublime  for  human  un- 
derstandings, unassisted  by  Divine  Grace,  to  compre- 
hend. 

I  have  here  drawn  a  hasty  outline  of  the  gospel-plan 
of  salvation.  In  a  future  letter  I  shall  endeavour  to  fill 
it  up.  At  present  I  shall  only  say,  think  on  these  things  ! 
— They  are  of  moment  inconceivable. — Read  your  Bible, 
in  order  to  confirm  yourself  in  these  sublime  truths,  and 
pray  to  God  to  sanctify  to  you  the  instructions  it  contains. 


244  C03IPLETE     WORKS 

At  present  I  would  turn  your  attention,  exclusively,  to 
the  New  Testament.  Read  also  the  book  which  accom- 
panies this  letter ; — it  is  by  the  great  Locke,  and  will 
serve  to  show  you  what  so  illustrious  a  philosopher 
thought  of  Revelation. 


TO  MR.  R.  A- 


Nottingham,  May  7th,  1804. 
DEAR  ROBERT, 

*  *  *  »  * 

You  don't  know  how  I  long  to  hear  how  your  decla- 
mation was  received,  and  'all  about  it,'  as  we  say  in 
these  parts.  I  hope  to  see  it,  when  I  see  its  author  and 
pronouncer.  Themistocles,  no  doubt,  received  due  praise 
from  you  for  his  valor  and  subtlety;  but  I  trust  you  pour- 
ed down  a  torrent  of  eloquent  indignation  upon  the  ruling 
principles  of  his  actions  and  the  motive  of  his  conduct, 
while  you  exalted  the  mild  and  unassuming  virtues  of 
his  more  amiable  rival.  The  object  of  Themistocles 
was  the  aggrandizement  of  himself,  that  of  Aristides  the 
welfare  and  prosperity  of  the  state.  The  one  endeav- 
oured to  swell  the  glory  of  his  country  ;  the  other  to 
promote  its  security,  external  and  internal,  foreign  and 
domestic.  While  you  estimated  the  services  which  The- 
mistocles rendered  to  the  state,  in  opposition  to  those  of 
Aristides,  you  of  course  remembered  that  the  former  had 
the  largest  scope  for  action,  and  that  he  influenced  his 
countrymen  to  fall  into  all  his  plans,  while  they  banished 
his  competitor,  not  by  his  superior  wisdom  or  goodness, 
but  by  those  intrigues  and  factious  artifices  which  Aristi- 
des would  have  disdained.  Themistocles  certainly  did 
use  bad  means  to  a  desirable  end  :  and  if  we  may  assume 
it  as  an  axiom,  that  Providence  will  forward  the  designs 
of  a  good  sooner  than  those  of  a  bad  man  ;  whatever  in- 
equality of  abilities  there  may  be  between  the  two  char- 
acters, it  will  follow  that,  had  Athens  remained  under 
the  guidance  of  Aristides,  it  would  have  been  better  for 
her.  The  difference  between  Themistocles  and  Aristides 
seems  to  me  to  be  this  :  That  the  former  was  a  wise  and 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  245 

s^  fortunate  man  ;  and  that  the  latter,  though  he  had  equal 
wisdom,  had  not  equal  good  fortune.  We  may  admire 
the  heroic  qualities  and  the  crafty  policy  of  the  one,  but 
to  the  temperate  and  disinterested  patriotism,  the  good 
and  virtuous  dispositions  of  the  other,  we  can  alone  give 
the  meed  of  heart-felt  praise. 

I  only  mean  by  this,  that  we  must  not  infer  Themis- 
tocles  to  have  been  the  better  or  the  greater  man,  because 
he  rendered  more  essential  services  to  the  state  than 
Aristides,  nor  even  that  his  system  was  the  most  judi- 
cious,— but  only,  that,  by  decision  of  character,  and  by 
good  fortune,  his  measures  succeeded  best. 
***** 

The  rules  of  composition  are,  in  my  opinion,  very  few. 
If  we  have  a  mature  acquaintance  with  our  subject, 
there  is  little  fear  of  our  expressing  it  as  we  ought,  pro- 
vided we  have  had  some  little  experience  in  writing.  The 
first  thing  to  be  aimed  at  is  perspicuity.  That  is  the 
great  point,  which,  once  attained,  will  make  all  other 
obstacles  smooth  to  us.  In  order  to  write  perspicuously, 
we  should  have  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  topic  on  which 
we  are  about  to  treat,  in  all  its  bearings  and  dependen- 
cies. We  should  think  well  beforehand  what  will  be 
the  clearest  method  of  conveying  the  drift  of  our  design. 
This  is  similar  to  what  the  painters  call  the  massing,  or 
getting  the  eflect  of  the  more  prominent  lights  and  shades 
by  broad  dashes  of  the  pencil.  When  our  thesis  is  well 
arranged  in  our  mind,  and  we  have  predisposed  our  ar- 
gimients,  reasonings,  and  illustrations,  so  as  they  shall 
all  conduce  to  the  object  in  view,  in  regular  sequence 
and  gradation,  we  may  sit  down  and  express  our  ideas 
in  as  clear  a  manner  as  we  can,  always  using  such  words 
as  are  most  suited  to  our  purpose  ;  and  when  two  modes 
of  expression,  equally  luminous,  present  themselves,  se- 
lecting that  which  is  the  most  harmonious  and  elegant. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  writers,  in  aiming  at  per- 
spicuity, overreach  themselves,  by  employing  too  many 
words,  and  perplex  the  mind  by  a  multiplicity  of  illus- 
trations. This  is  a  very  fatal  error.  Circumlocution 
seldom  conduces  to  plainness  ;  and  you  may  take  it  as  a 
maxim,  that,  when  once  an  idea  is  clearly  expressed,  every 
additional  stroke  will  only  confuse  the  mind,  and  dimin- 
ish the  effect. 
21* 


246  COMPLETE    WORKS 

When  you  have  once  learned  to  express  yourself  with 
clearness  and  propriety,  you  will  soon  arrive  at  elegance. 
Everything  else,  in  fact,  will  follow  as  of  course.  But 
I  warn  you  not  to  invert  the  order  of  things,  and  be  pay- 
ing your  addresses  to  the  Graces,  when  you  ought  to  be 
studying  perspicuity.  Young  writers,  in  general,  are  too 
solicitous  to  round  off  their  periods,  and  regulate  the  ca- 
dences of  their  style.  Hence  the  feeble  pleonasms  and 
idle  repetitions  which  deform  their  pages.  If  you  would 
have  your  compositions  vigorous,  and  masculine  in  their 
tone,  let  every  word  tell  ;  and  when  you  detect  your- 
self polishing  off  a  sentence  with  expletives,  regard 
yourself  in  exactly  the  same  predicament  with  a  poet 
who  should  eke  out  the  measure  of  his  verses  with  ti- 
tum,  titom,  tee,  sir." 

So  much  for  style 


TO  MR.  R.  A . 

Nottingham,  9th  May,  1804. 
MY  DEAR  FRIExVD, 

*  *  *  * 

I  HAVE  not  spoken  as  yet  to  Messrs.  Coldham  and  En- 
field. Your  injunction  to  suspend  so  doing,  has  left  me 
in  a  state  of  mind,  which,  I  think,  I  am  blamable  for 
indulging,  but  which  is  indescribably  painful.  I  had  no 
sleep  last  night,  partly  from  anxiety,  and  partly  from 
the  effects  of  a  low  fever,  which  has  preyed  on  my 
nerves  for  the  last  six  or  seven  days.  I  am  afraid, 
Robert,  my  religion  is  very  superficial.  I  ought  not  to 
feel  this  distrust  of  God's  providence.  Should  I  now  be 
prevented  from  going  to  College,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a 
just  punishment  for  my  want  of  faith. 

I  conclude  Mr.  Martyn  has  failed  in  procuring  the  aid 
he  expected  ?    Is  it  so  ^ 

***** 

On  these  contingencies,  Robert,  you  must  know  from 
my  peculiar  situation,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  to  col- 
lege. My  mother,  at  all  times  averse,  has  lately  been 
pressed  by  one  of  the  deacons  of  Castlegate  Meeting,  to 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  24,1 

prevail  on  me  to  go  to  Dr.  Williams.  This  idea  now 
fills  her  head,  and  she  would  feel  no  small  degree  of 
pleasure  in  the  failure  of  my  resources  for  College.  Be- 
sides this,  her  natural  anxiety  for  my  welfare  will  never 
allow  her  to  permit  me  to  go  to  the  university  depending 
almost  entirely  on  herself,  knowing  not  only  the  inade- 
quacy,  but  the  great  uncertainty^  of  her  aid.  Coldham 
and  Enfield  must  likewise  be  satisfied  that  my  way  is 
clear :  I  tremble,  I  almost  despair.  A  variety  of  con- 
tending emotions,  which  I  cannot  particularize,  agitate 
my  mind.  I  tremble  lest  I  should  have  mistaken  my 
call  :  these  are  solemn  warnings  : — but  no — I  cannot  en- 
tertain the  thought.  To  the  ministry  I  am  devoted  I 
believe,  by  God  ;  in  what  way  must  be  left  to  his  provi- 
dence. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  June,  1804. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

In  answer  to  your  question,  whether  the  Sizers  have 
any  duties  to  perform,  I  answer.  No.  Somebody,  per- 
haps, has  been  hinting  that  there  are  servile  offices  to 
be  performed  by  Sizers.  It  is  a  common  opinion,  but 
perfectly  erroneous.  The  Oxford  servitors,  I  believe, 
have  many  unpleasant  duties  ;  but  the  Sizers  at  Cam- 
bridge only  ditier  from  the  rest  in  name. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  June,  15th,  1804. 
MY  DEAR  BEN, 

I  DO  not  sit  down  to  write  you  a  long  letter,  for  I  have 
been  too  much  exhausted  with  mathematics  to  have 
much  vigor  of  mind  left ;  my  lines  will  therefore  be 
wider  than  they  are  wont  to  be,  and  I  shall,  for  once, 
be  oblisred  to  diffuse  a  little  matter  over  a  broad  surface 


248  COMPLETE    WORKS 

For  a  consolatory  letter  I  trust  you  have  little  need,  as 
by  this  time  you  have  no  doubt  learned  to  meet  with 
calmness,  those  temporary  privations  and  inponvenien- 
ces  which,  in  this  life,  we  must  expect,  and  therefore 
should  be  prepared  to  encounter. 

***** 

This  is  true — this  is  Christian  philosophy  :  it  is  a  phi- 
losophy in  which  we  must  all,  sooner  or  later,  be  insti- 
tuted, and  which,  if  you  steadfastly  persist  in  seeking,  I 
am  sure  God  will  assist  you  to  your  manifest  comfort 
and  peace. 

There  are  sorrows,  and  there  are  misfortunes  which 
bow  down  the  spirit  beyond  the  aid  of  all  human  com- 
fort. Of  these,  I  know,  my  dear  Ben,  you  have  had 
more  than  common  experience  ;  but  while  the  cup  of 
life  does  overflow  with  draughts  of  such  extreme  asperi- 
ty, we  ought  to  fortify  ourselves  against  lesser  evils,  as 
unimportant  to  man,  who  has  much  heavier  woes  to 
expect,  and  to  the  Christian,  whose  joys  are  laid  be- 
yond the  verge  of  mortal  existence.  There  are  afflic- 
tions, there  are  privations,  where  death  and  hopes  irre- 
coverably blasted  leave  no  prospect  of  retrieval  ;  when 
I  would  no  more  say  to  the  mourner,  '  Man,  wherefore 
weepest  thou  ? '  than  I  would  ask  the  winds  why  they 
blew,  or  the  tempest  why  it  raged.  Sorrows  like  these 
are  sacred  ;  but  the  inferior  troubles  of  partial  separation, 
vexatious  occupation,  and  opposing  current  of  human 
affairs  are  such  as  ought  not,  at  least  immoderately,  to 
affect  a  Christian,  but  rather  ought  to  be  contemplated 
as  the  necessary  accidents  of  life,  and  disregarded  while 
their  pains  are  more  sensibly  felt. 

Do  not  think,  I  beseech  you,  my  dear  Ben,  that  I  wish 
to  represent  your  sorrows  as  light  or  trivial  ;  I  know 
they  are  not  light ;  I  know  they  are  not  trivial  ;  but  I 
wish  to  induce  you  to  summon  up  the  man  within  you  ; 
and  while  those  unhappy  troubles,  which  you  cannot 
alleviate,  must  continue  to  torment  you,  I  would  exhort 
you  to  rise  superior  to  the  crosses  of  life,  and  show 
yourself  a  genuine  disciple  of  Jesus  Christ,  in  the  endu- 
rance of  evil  without  repining,  or  unavailable  lamenta- 
tions. 

Blessed  as  you  are  with  the  good  testimony  of  approv- 
ing  conscience,  and  happy  in  an  intimate  communion        j 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  249 

with  the  all-pure  and  all-merciful  God,  these  trifling 
concerns  ought  not  to  molest  you ;  nay,  were  the  tide 
of  adversity  to  turn  strong  against  you,  even  were  your 
friends  to  forsake  you,  and  abject  poverty  to  stare  you 
in  the  face,  you  ought  to  be  abundantly  thankful  to  God 
for  his  mercies  to  you  ;  you  ought  to  consider  yourself 
still  as  rich,  yea,  to  look  around  you,  and  say,  I  am  far 
happier  than  the  sons  of  men. 

This  is  a  system  of  philosophy  which,  for  myself,  I 
shall  not  only  preach,  but  practise.  We  are  here  for 
nobler  purposes  than  to  waste  the  fleeting  moments  of 
our  Uves  in  lamentations  and  wailings  over  troubles, 
which,  in  their  widest  extent,  do  but  aflect  the  present 
state,  and  which,  perhaps,  only  regard  our  personal ^ease 
and  prosperity.  Make  me  an  outcast — a  beggar  ;  place 
me  a  bare-footed  pilgrim  on  the  top  of  the  Alps  or  the 
Pyrenes,  and  I  should  have  wherewithal  to  sustain  the 
spirit  within  me,  in  the  reflection  that  all  this  was  but 
as  for  a  moment,  and  that  a  period  would  come  when 
wrong,  and  injury,  and  trouble  should  be  no  more.  Are 
we  to  be  so  utterly  enslaved  by  habit  and  association, 
that  we  shall  spend  our  lives  in  anxiety  and  bitter  care, 
only  that  we  may  find  a  covering  for  our  bodies,  or  the 
means  of  assuaging  hunger  ?  for  what  else  is  an  anxiety 
after  the  world  ?  Or  are  even  the  followers  of  Christ 
themselves  to  be  infected  with  the  inane,  the  childish 
desire  of  heaping  together  wealth  ?  Were  a  man,  in  the 
way  of  making  a  large  fortune,  to  take  up  his  hat  and 
stick,  and  say,  '  I  am  useless  here,  and  unhappy  ;  I  will 
go  and  abide  with  the  Gentoo  or  the  Paraguay,  where  I 
shall  be  happy  and  useful,'  he  would  be  laughed  at ;  but 
I  say  he  would  prove  himself  a  more  reasonable  and 
virtuous  man,  than  him  who  binds  himself  down  to  a 
business  which  he  dislikes,  because  it  would  be  account- 
ed strange,  or  foolish,  to  abandon  so  good  a  concern, 
and  who  heaps  up  wealth,  for  which  he  has  httle  relish, 
because  the  world  accounts  it  policy. 

I  will  refrain  from  pursuing  this  tone  of  reasoning.  I 
know  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  and  I  know  that 
we  may  argue  with  a  deal  of  force,  to  show  the  folly  of 
grief,  when  we  ourselves  are  its  passive  victims.  But 
whether  strength  of  mind  prevail  with  you,  or  whether 
you  still  indulge  in  melancholy  bodings  and  repinings, 


250  COMPLETE    WORKS 

I  am  still  your  friend,  nay,  your  sympathizing  friend. 
Hard  and  callous,  and  '  unfeeling '  as  I  may  seem,  I  have 
a  heart  for  my  ever  dear  Benjamin. 

HENRY  K.  WHITE. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Wilford,  near  Nottingham, ,  1804. 

DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  NOW  write  to  you  from  a  little  cottage  at  Wilford, 
where  I  have  taken  a  room  for  a  fortnight,  as  well  for 
the  benefit  of  my  health,  as  for  the  advantage  of  unin- 
terrupted study  I  live  in  a  homely  house,  in  a  homely 
style,  but  am  well  occupied,  and  perfectly  at  my  ease. 

And  now,  my  dear  brother,  I  must  sincerely  beg  par- 
don for  all  those  manifold  neglects  of  which  I  cannot 
but  accuse  myself  towards  you.  When  I  recollect  in- 
numerable requests  in  your  letters,  which  I  have  not 
noticed,  and  many  inquiries  I  have  not  satisfied,  I  almost 
feel  afraid  that  you  will  imagine  I  no  longer  regard  your 
letters  with  brotherly  fondness,  and  that  you  will  cease 
to  exercise  towards  me  your  wonted  confidence  and 
friendship.  Indeed,  you  may  take  my  word,  they  have 
arisen  from  my  peculiar  circumstances,  and  not  from 
any  unconcern  or  disregard  of  your  wishes.  I  am  now 
bringing  my  affairs  (laugh  not  at  the  word)  into  some 
regularity,  after  all  the  hurry  and  confusion  in  which 
tliey  have  been  plunged,  by  the  distraction  of  mind  at- 
tending my  publication,  and  the  projected  change  of  my 
destination  in  life. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Wilford,  near  Nottingham, ,  1804. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


I  HAVE  run  very  much  on  the  Avrong  side  of  the  post 
here  ;  for  having  sent  copies  round  to  such  persons  as 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  251 

had  given  me  in  their  names,  as  subscribers,  with  com- 
pliments, they  have  placed  them  to  the  account  of  pres- 
ents ! 

*  *  »  «  4> 

And,  now  my  dear  Neville,  I  must  give  you  the  most  in- 
genious specimen  of  the  invention  of  petty  envy  you 
perhaps  ever  heard  of.  When  Addison  produced '  Cato,' 
it  was  currently  received,  that  he  had  bought  it  of  a  vi- 
car for  401.  The  Nottingham  gentry,  knowing  me  too 
poor  to  buy  my  poems,  thought  they  could  do  no  better 
than  place  it  to  the  account  of  family  affection,  and,  lo  ! 
Mrs.  Smith  is  become  the  sole  author,  who  has  made 
use  of  her  brother's  name  as  a  feint !  I  heard  of  this 
report  first  covertly  :  it  was  said  that  Mrs.  Smith  was 
the  principal  writer  :  next  it  was  said  that  I  was'  the 
author  of  one  of  the  inferior  smaller  pieces  only,  ('  My 
Study  ;')  and,  lastly,  on  mentioning  the  circumstances  to 

Mr.   A ,   he  confessed  that  he  had  heard  several 

times  that  my  '  sister  was  the  sole  quill-driver  of  the 
family,  and  that  master  Henry,  in  particular,  was  rather 
shallow,'  but  that  he  had  refrained  from  telling  me,  be- 
cause he  thought  it  would  vex  me.  Now,  as  to  the 
vexing  me,  it  only  has  afforded  me  a  hearty  laugh.  I 
sent  my  compliments  to  one  great  lady,  whom  I  heard 
propagating  this  ridiculous  report,  and  congratulated  her 
on  her  ingenuity,  telling  her,  as  a  great  secret,  that 
neither  my  sister  or  myself  had  any  claim  to  any  of  the 
poems,  for  the  right  author  was  the  Great  Mogul's 
cousin-german.  The  best  part  of  the  story  is,  that  my 
good  friend,  Benj  Maddock,  found  means  to  get  me  to 
write  verses  extempore,  to  prove  whether  I  could  tag 
rhymes  or  not,  which,  it  seems  he  doubted. 


VERSES  REFERRED  TO  IN  THE  FOREGOING  LETTER. 

Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy, 

Whose  eve  turns  green  at  merit  not  thine  own. 
Oh,  far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly. 
And  find  on  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne. 
Away,  away,  it  shall  not  be, 
Tliou  shalt  not  dare  defile  our  plains  ; 
The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
Thy  meaner,  lowher  fires,  while  he 
Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  other's  jollity. 


252  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Triumphant  monster  !  though  thy  schemes  succeed— 

Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night. 
Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed, 

Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light ; 
When  o'er  his  head  in  silence  that  reposes, 

Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear; 
Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses. 

Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe  j 
Then  will  thy  baseness  stand  confess'd,  and  all 
Will  curse  the  ungenerous  fate,  that  bade  a  Poet  fall. 


Yet,  ah  !  thy  arrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure  : 

Coiddst  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey  1 
Alas  !  in  robbing  him  thou  robb'st  the  poor, 

Who  only  boast  what  thou  wouldst  take  away  ; 
See  the  lone  Bard  at  midnight  study  sitting. 

O'er  his  pale  features  streams  his  dying  lamp; 
While  o'er  fond  Fancy's  pale  perspective  flitting, 

Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
Yet  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  impress'd ; 

Does  jocund  Health  in  thought's  still  mansion  live  1 
Lo,  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest. 

That  short  quick  sigh — tlieii-  sad  responses  give. 

And  canst  thou  rob  a  Poet  of  his  song ; 

Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  1 
Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long ; 

Then  leave,  oh,  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays 
While  yet  he  lives — for  to  his  merits  just. 

Though  future  ages  join,  his  fame  to  raise. 
Will  the  loud  trump  awake  his  cold  unheeding  dust  1 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  7th  July,  1804. 


MY  DEAR  BEN, 


The  real  wants  of  life  are  few ;  the  support  of  the 
body,  simply,  is  no  expensive  matter  ;  and  as  we  are  not 
made  upon  silks  and  satins,  the  covering  of  it  will  not 
be  more  costly.  The  only  superfluity  I  should  covet 
would  be  books,  but  I  have  learned  how  to  abridge  that 
pleasure  ;  and  having  sold  the  flower  of  my  library  for 
the  amazing  sum  of  Six  Guineas,  I  mean  to  try  whether 
meditation  will  not  supply  the  place  of  general  reading, 
and  probably,  by  the  time  I  am  poor  and  needy,  I  shall 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  253 

look  upon  a  large  library  like  a  fashionable  wardrobe, 
goodly  and  pleasant,  but  as  to  the  real  utility,  indifferent. 

So  much  for  Stoicism,  and  now  for  Monachism — I  shall 
never,  never  marry  !  It  cannot,  must  not  be.  As  to  af- 
fections, mine  are  already  engaged  as  much  as  they  will 
ever  be,  and  this  is  one  reason  why  I  believe  my  life 
will  be  a  life  of  celibacy.  I  pray  to  God  that  it  may  be 
so,  and  that  I  may  be  happy  in  that  state.  I  love  too 
ardently  to  make  love  innocent,  and  therefore  I  say 
farewell  to  it.  Besides,  I  have  another  inducement,  I 
cannot  introduce  a  woman  into  poverty  for  my  love's 
sake,  nor  could  I  well  bear  to  see  such  a  one  as  I  must 
marry  struggling  with  narrow  circumstances,  and  sigh- 
ing for  the  fortunes  of  her  children.  No,  I  say,  forbear  ! 
and  may  the  example  of  St.  Gregory  of  Naz.  and  St. 
Basil,  support  me. 

AH  friends  are  well,  except  your  humble  scribe,  who 
has  got  a  little  too  much  into  his  old  way  since  your  de- 
parture. Studying  and  musing,  and  dreaming  of  every- 
thing but  his  health  ;  still  amid  all  his  studying,  musings, 
and  dreams. 

Your  true  friend  and  brother, 

H.  K.  WHITE 


TO  THE  EDITOR. 

Nottingham,  July  9th,  1804. 
*  #  «  ♦  * 

I  CAN  now  inform  you,  that  I  have  reason  to  believe 
my  way  through  college  is  clear  before  me.  From  what 
source  I  know  not ;  but  through  the  hands  of  Mr.  Sime- 
on I  am  provided  with  301.  per  annum  ;  and  while  things 
go  on  so  prosperously  as  they  do  now,  I  can  command 
201.  or  301.  more  from  my  friends,  and  this,  in  all  proba- 
bility, until  I  take  my  degree.  The  friends  to  whom  I 
allude  are  my  mother  and  brother. 

My  mother  has,  for  these  five  years  past,  kept  a 
boarding  school  in  Nottingham  :  and,  so  long  as  her 
school  continues  in  its  present  state,  she  can  supply  me 
with  151.  or  201.  per  annum,  without  inconvenience  ;  but 
should  she  die,  (and  her  health  is,  I  fear,  but  infirm,) 
_...._ ^^  __..... _       .    .     .    ,. 


254  COMPLETE    WORKS 

that  resource  will  altogether  fail.  Still,  I  think,  my 
prospect  is  so  good  as  to  preclude  any  anxiety  on  my 
part ;  and  perhaps  my  income  will  be  more  than  adequate 
to  my  wants,  as  I  shall  be  a  Sizer  of  St.  John's  where 
the  college  emoluments  are  more  than  commonly  large. 

In  this  situation  of  my  affairs,  you  will  perhaps  agree 
with  me  in  thinking  that  a  subscription  for  a  volume  of 
poems  will  not  be  necessary  ;  and,  certainly,  that  meas- 
ure is  one  which  Avill  be  better  avoided,  if  it  may  be.  I 
have  lately  looked  over  what  poems  I  have  by  me  in 
manuscript,  and  find  them  more  numerous  than  I  expect- 
ed ;  but  many  of  them  would  perhaps  be  styled  mopish 
and  mawkish,  and  even  misanthropic,  in  the  language  of 
the  world  ;  though,  from  the  latter  sentiment,  I  am  sure 
I  can  say,  no  one  is  more  opposite  than  I  am.  These 
poems,  therefore,  will  never  see  the  light,  as,  from  a 
teacher  of  that  word  which  gives  all  strength  to  the  fee- 
ble, more  fortitude  and  christian  philosophy  may,  with 
justice,  be  expected  than  they  display.  The  remainder 
of  my  verses  would  not  possess  any  great  interest :  mere 
description  is  often  mere  nonsense  :  and  I  have  acquired 
a  strange  habit,  whenever  I  do  point  out  a  train  of  mor- 
al sentiment  from  the  contemplation  of  a  picture,  to  give 
it  a  gloomy  and  querulous  cast,  when  there  is  nothing 
in  the  occasion  but  what  ought  to  inspire  joy  and  grati- 
tude. I  have  one  poem,  however,  of  some  length,  which 
I  shall  preserve  ;  and  I  have  another  of  considerable 
magnitude  in  design,  but  of  which  only  a  part  is  written, 
which  I  am  fairly  at  a  loss  whether  to  commit  to  the 
flames,  or  at  some  future  opportunity  to  finish.  The 
subject  is  the  death  of  Christ.  I  have  no  friend  whose 
opinion  is  at  all  to  be  relied  on,  to  whom  I  could  submit 
it,  and,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  may  be  absolutely  worth- 
less. 

With  regard  to  that  part  of  my  provision  which  is  de- 
rived from  my  unknown  friend,  it  is  of  course  conditional : 
and  as  it  is  not  a  provision  for  a  poet,  but  for  a  candidate 
for  orders,  I  believe  it  is  expected,  and  indeed  it  has  been 
hinted  as  a  thing  advisable,  that  I  should  barter  the 
Muses  for  mathematics,  and  abstain  from  writing  verses 
at  least  until  I  take  my  degree.  If  I  find  that  all  my 
time  will  be  requisite,  in  order  to  prepare  for  the  impor- 
tant oflice  I  am  destined  to  fill.  I  shall  certainly  do  my 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

duty,  however  severely  it  may  cost  me  :  but  if  I  find  I 
may  lawfully  and  conscientiously  relax  myself  at  inter- 
vals, with  those  delightful  reveries  which  have  hitherto 
formed  the  chief  pleasure  of  my  life,  I  shall,  without 
scruple,  indulge  myself  in  them. 

I  know  the  pursuit  of  Truth  is  a  much  more  important 
busincb-  than  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  ;  and  amid 
all  the  quaintness  and  stiff  method  of  the  mathemati- 
cians, I  can  even  discover  a  source  of  chaste  and  exalted 
pleasure.  To  their  severe  but  salutary  discipline,  I  must 
now  '  subdue  the  vivid  shapings  of  my  youth  ;'  and 
though  I  shall  cast  many  a  fond  lingering  look  to  Fancy's 
more  alluring  paths,  yet  I  shall  be  repaid  by  the  antici- 
pation of  days,  when  I  may  enjoy  the  sweet  satisft^ction 
of  being  useful,  in  no  ordinary  degree,  to  my  fellow- 
mortals. 


TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 

Nottingham,  24th  July,  1804. 


DEAR  SIR, 


I 


I  THINK  Mr.  Moore's  love  poems  are  infamous,  because 
they  subvert  the  first  great  object  of  poetry— the  en- 
couragement of  the  virtuous  and  the  noble,  and  meta- 
morphose nutritious  aliment  into  poison.  I  think  the 
Muses  are  degraded  when  they  are  made  the  handmaids 
of  sensuality,  and  the  bawds  of  a  brothel. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  the  opinion  of  a  young  man,  but  I 
think  too,  the  old  system  of  heroic  attachment,  with  all 
its  attendant  notions  of  honor  and  spotlessness,  was,  in 
the  end,  calculated  to  promote  the  interests  of  the  hu- 
man race  ;  for  though  it  produced  a  temporary  alienation 
of  mind,  perhaps  bordering  on  insanity,  yet  with  the 
very  extravagance  and  madness  of  the  sentiments,  there 
were  inwoven  certain  imperious  principles  of  virtue  and 
generosity,  which  would  probably  remain  after  time  had 
evaporated  the  heat  of  passion,  and  sobered  the  luxuri- 
ance of  a  romantic  imagination.  I  think,  therefore,  a 
man  of  song  is  rendering  the  community  a  service  when 


256  COMPLETE    WORKS 

he  displays  the  ardor  of  manly  affection  in  a  pleasing 
Hght ;  bu(  certainly  we  need  no  incentives  to  the  irregu- 
lar gratification  of  our  appetites,  and  I  should  think  it  a 
proper  punishment  for  the  poet  who  holds  forth  the  al- 
lurements of  illicit  pleasures  in  amiable  and  seductive 
colors,  should  his  wife,  his  sister,  or  his  child  fall  a 
victim  to  the  licentiousness  he  has  been  instrumental  in 
diffusing. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Winteringhara,  August  3, 1804. 
MY  DEAR  BEN, 

I  AM  all  anxiety  to  learn  the  issue  of  your  proposal  to 
your  father.  Surely  it  will  proceed  ;  surely  a  plan  laid 
out  with  such  fair  prospects  of  happiness  to  you,  as  well 
as  me,  will  not  be  frustrated.  Write  to  me  the  moment 
you  have  any  information  on  the  subject. 

I  think  we  shall  be  happy  together  at  Cambridge  ;  and 
in  the  ardent  pursuit  of  Christian  knowledge,  and  Chris- 
tian virtue,  we  shall  be  doubly  united.  We  were  before 
friends  ;  now,  I  hope,  likely  to  be  still  more  emphatically 
so.     But  I  must  not  anticipate. 

I  left  Nottingham  without  seeing  my  brother  Neville, 
who  arrived  there  two  days  after  me.  This  is  a  circum- 
stance which  I  much  regret ;  but  I  hope  he  will  come 
this  way  when  he  goes,  according  to  his  intention,  to  a 
watering  place.  Neville  has  been  a  good  brother  to  me, 
and  there  are  not  many  things  which  would  give  me 
more  pleasure  than,  after  so  long  a  separation,  to  see 
him  again.  I  dare  not  hope  that  I  shall  meet  you  and 
him  together  in  October,  at  Nottingham. 

My  days  flow  on  here  in  an  even  tenor.  They  are, 
indeed,  studious  days,  for  my  studies  seem  to  multiply 
on  my  hands,  and  I  am  so  much  occupied  with  them, 
that  1  am  becoming  a  mere  bookworm,  running  over  the 
rules  of  Greek  versification  in  my  walks,  instead  of  ex- 
patiating on  the  beauties  of  the  surrounding  scenery. 
Winteringham,  is,  indeed,  now  a  delightful  place  :  the 
trees  are  in  full  verdure,  the  crops  are  browning  the 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  257 

fields,  and  my  former  walks  are  become  dry  under  foot, 
which  I  have  never  known  them  to  be  before.  The 
opening  vista,  from  our  churchyard  over  the  Humber, 
to  the  bills,  and  receding  vales  of  Yorkshire,  assumes  a 
thousand  new  aspects.  I  sometimes  watch  it  at  eve- 
ning, when  the  sun  is  just  gilding  the  summits  of  the 
hills,  and  the  lowlands  are  beginning  to  take  a  browner 
hue.  The  showers  partially  falling  in  the  distance,  while 
all  is  serene  above  me  ;  the  swelling  sail  rapidly  falling 
down  the  river  ;  and,  not  least  of  all,  the  villages,  woods, 
and  villas  on  the  opposite  bank,  sometimes  render  this 
scene  quite  enchanting  to  me  ;  and  it  is  no  contempti- 
ble relaxation,  after  a  man  has  been  puzzling  his  brains 
over  the  intricacies  of  Greek  choruses  all  the  day,  to 
come  out  and  unbend  his  mind  with  careless  thought 
and  negligent  fancies,  while  he  refreshes  his  body  with 
the  fresh  air  of  the  country. 

I  wish  you  to  have  a  taste  of  these  pleasures  with  me  ; 
and  if  ever  I  should  live  to  be  blessed  with  a  quiet  par- 
sonage, and  that  great  object  of  my  ambition,  a  garden, 
I  have  no  doubt  but  we  shall  be,  for  some  short  inter- 
vals, at  least,  two  quiet,  contented  bodies.  These  will 
be  our  relaxations  ;  our  business  will  be  of  a  nobler  kind. 
Let  us  vigilantly  fortify  ourselves  against  the  exigences 
of  the  serious  appointment  we  are,  with  God's  blessing, 
to  fulfil ;  and  if  we  go  into  the  church  prepared  to  do 
our  duty,  there  is  every  reasonable  prospect  that  our 
labors  will  be  blessed,  and  that  we  shall  be  blessed  in 
them.  As  your  habits  generally  have  been  averse  to 
what  is  called  close  application,  it  will  be  too  much  for 
your  strength,  as  well  as  unadvisable  in  other  points  of 
view,  to  study  very  intensely  ;  but  regularly  you  may, 
and  must  read  ;  and  depend  upon  it,  a  man  will  work 
more  wonders  by  stated  and  constant  application,  than 
by  unnatural  and  forced  endeavours. 


22* 


25S  COMPLETE    WORKS 

TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  September,  1804. 
MY  DEAR  BEN, 

By  the  time  you  will  open  this  letter,  we  shall  have 
parted,  God  only  knows  whether  ever  to  meet  again. 
The  chances  and  casualties  of  human  life  are  such  as  to 
render  it  always  questionable  whether  three  months 
may  not  separate  us  forever  from  an  absent  friend. 
***** 

For  my  part,  I  shall  feel  a  vacuum  when  you  are 
cone,  which  will  not  easily  be  filled  up.  I  shall  miss 
my  only  intimate  friend — the  companion  of  my  walks — 
the  interrupter  of  my  evening  studies.  I  shall  return, 
in  a  great  measure,  to  my  old  solitary  habits.  I  cannot 
associate  with  *  *  nor  yet  with  *  *  *  has  no  place  in  my 
affections,  though  he  has  in  my  esteem.  It  was  to  you 
alone  I  looked  as  my  adopted  brother,  and  (although, 
for  reasons  you  may  hereafter  learn,  I  have  not  made 
you  my  perfect  confidant)  my  comforter. — Heumihi  amice, 
Yale,  ^Inngum  Vale!  I  hope  you  will  sometimes  think 
of  me,  and  give  me  a  portion  in  your  prayers. 
***** 

Perhaps  it  may  be  that  I  am  not  formed  for  friendship, 
that  I  expect  more  than  can  ever  be  found.  Time  will 
tutor  me  ;  I  am  a  singular  being  under  a  common  outside  : 
I  am  a  profound  dissembler  of  my  inw^ard  feelings,  and 
necessity  has  taught  me  the  art.  I  am  long  before  I 
can  unbosom  to  a  friend,  yet,  I  think,  I  am  sincere  in 
my  friendship  :  you  must  not  attribute  this  to  any  sus- 
piciousness of  nature,  but  must  consider  that  I  lived  sev- 
enteen years  my  own  confidant,  my  own  friend,  full  of 
projects  and  strange  thoughts,  and  confiding  them  to  no 
one.  I  am  habitually  reserved,  and  habitually  cautious 
in  lettini?  it  be  seen  that  I  hide  anything.  Towards  you 
I  would  "fain  conquer  these  habits,  and  this  is  one  step 
towards  effecting  the  conquest. 

I  am  not  well,  Ben,  to-night,  as  my  hand-writing  and 
style  will  show  ;  I  have  rambled  on,  however,  to  some 
length  ;  my  letter  may  serve  to  beguile  a  few  moments 
on  your  way.  I  must  say  good-by  to  you,  and  may 
God  bless  you,  and  preserve  you,  and  be  your  guide  and 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  259 

director  forever  !  Remember  he  is  always  with  you  ; 
remember  that  in  him  you  have  a  comforter  in  every 
gloom.  In  your  wakeful  nights,  when  you  have  not 
me  to  talk  to,  his  ear  will  be  bent  down  on  your  pillow  ; 
v/hat  better  bosom  friend  has  a  man  than  the  merciful 
and  benignant  Father  of  all  ?  Happy,  thrice  happy, 
are  you  in  the  privilege  of  his  grace  and  acceptance. 
Dear  Ben,  I  am  your  true  friend, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  MR.  K,  SWAi\i\. 

High  Pavement,  October  4th,  1804* 


DEAR  KIRKE, 


For  your  kind  and  very  valuable  present,  I  know 
not  how  to  thank  you.  The  Archbishop*  has  long  been 
one  of  my  most  favorite  divines  ;  and  a  complete  set  of 
his  sermons  really  'sets  me  up.''  I  hope  I  am  able  to  ap- 
preciate the  merits  of  such  a  collection,  and  I  shall  al- 
ways value  them  apart  from  their  merit,  as  a  memento 
of  friendship. 

I  hope  that,  when  our  correspondence  begins,  it  will 
neither  be  lax  nor  uninteresting  ;  and  that,  on  both  sides, 
it  may  be  productive  of  something  more  than  mere 
amusement. 

While  we  each  strive  to  become  wiser  in  those  things 
wherein  true  wisdom  is  alone  to  be  found,  we  may  mu- 
tually contribute  to  each  other's  success,  by  the  commu- 
nication of  our  thoughts  :  and  that  we  may  both  become 
proficients  in  that  amiable  philosophy  which  makes  us 
happier  by  rendering  us  better ;  that  philosophy  which 
alone  makes  us  wise  unto  salvation,  is  the  prayer  of, 
Dear  Kirke,  your  sincere  friend, 

H.  K.   WHITE. 

*  TiUotson. 


k 


260  COMPLETE  WORKS 

TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 

Winteringham,  1804. 

AMICE  DILECTE,* 

PuDERET  me  infrequentise  nostrarum  literamm,  nisi 
hoc  ex  te  pendere  sentirem.  Epistolas  a  te  missas  non 
prills  accepi  quam  kalendis  Decembris — res  mihi  acerba, 
nihilominus  ad  ferendum  levior,  dum  me  non  tibi  ex  ani- 
mo  prorsus  excidisse  satis  exploratum  est. 

Gavisus  sum,  e  litteris  tuis,  amico  Roberto  dicatis, 
cum  audirem  te  operam  et  dedisse  et  daturum  ad  Grs- 
cam  linguam  etiamnum  excolendam  cum  viro  omni  doc- 
trina  erudito. — Satis  scio  te,  illo  duce,  virum  doctissi- 
mum  et  in  optimarum  artium  studiis  exquisitissimum 
futurum  esse  :  baud  tamen  his  facultatibus  contentum, 
sed  altiora  petentem,  nempe  salutem  humani  generis 
et  sancta  verbi  divini  arcana. 

Vix  jam,  amice  !  recreor  e  morbo,  a  quo  graviter 
segrotavi :  vix  jam  incipio  membra  languore  confecta  in 
diem  apertam  trahere.  Tactus  arida  manu  febris,  spa- 
tiosas  trivi  noctes  lacrymis  et  gemitu.  Vidi,  cum  in 
conspectu  mortis  coUocatus  fuerim,  vidi  omnia  clariora 
facta,  intellexi  me  non  fidem  Christi  satis  servasse,  non, 
ut  famulum  Dei,  fideliter  vitam  egisse.  ^Egritudo  mul- 
ta  prius  celata  patefacit.  Hoc  ipse  sensi  et  omnes,  sint 
sane  religiosi,  sint  boni,  idem  sentient.  Sed  ego  prseci- 
pue  causam  habui  cur  me  afflixerim  et  summisso  animo 
ad  pedem  crucis  abjecerim.  Imo  vero  et  lacrymas 
copiose  effudi  et  interdum  consolatio  Sancti  Spiritus  tur- 
binem  animi  placavit.  Utinam  vestigium  hujus  periculi 
semper  in  animo  retineam  ! 

Non  dubito  quin  tibi  gratum  erit  audire  de  moribus  et 
studiis  nostris.  Prasceptor  nobis,  nomine  Grainger,  non 
e  collegio  educatus  fuit,  attamen  doctrina  baud  mediocris 
est,  pietate  eximius.  Hypodidascalus  fuit  in  schola  viri 
istius  docti  et  admodum  venerandi  Josephi  Mihier,  qui 
eum  dilexit  atque  honoravit.  Mores  jucundi  et  faciles 
sunt,  urbanitate  ac  lepore  suaviter  conditi,  quanquam 
interdum  in  vultu  tristis  severitas  inest.  Erga  bonos 
mansuetus,  malis  se  durior  gerit. — ^que  fere  est  Pastor 

*  This  Letter  was  written  when  our  author  was  but  commencing  liis  Claseical 
Studies,  and  must  therefore  not  be  considered  as  a  specimen  of  his  Latinity. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  26i 

(liligens,  vir  egregius,  et  prseceptor  bonus.  Cum  isthoc 
leginms  apud  Grcecos,  Homerum  et  Domosthenem  et 
Sanctas  Scripturas,  apud  Latinos,  Virgilium,  Ciceronem 
et  aliquando  in  ludo  Terentium.  Scribimus  etiam  La- 
tine,  et  constructionis  et  elegantise  gratia ;  nihilominus 
(h'dc  epistola  teste)  non  opus  est  dicendi  tibi  quam  pau- 
luluni  ego  ipse  proficio.  In  scribendo  Latine,  prseter  con- 
suetudinem  in  lingua  Anglicana,  sum  lentus,  piger,  in- 
eptus.  Verba  stillant  heu  quam  otiose,  et  quum  tandem 
visa  sint  quam  inelegantia  !  Spero  tamen  usu  atque  an- 
imo  diligenter  adhibendo  deinde  Latinis  sermonibus  ali- 
quam  adipisci  facilitatem,  nunc  fere  oportet  me  contentum 
esse  cupire  et  laborare,  paululum  potiundo,  magna  moli- 
endo. 

Intelligis,  procul  dubio,  nos  vicum  incolere  Wintering- 
hamiensis,  ripis  situm  Humberi  fluminis,  sed  nondum 
forsan  sentias  locum  esse  agrestem,  fluviis,  coUibus,  ar- 
vis,  omni  decore  pervenustum.  Domus  nostra  Templo 
Dei  adjacet ;  a  tergo  sunt  dulces  horti  et  terrenus  agger 
arboribus  crebre  septus,  quo  deambulare  sol  emus.  Cir- 
cumcirca  sunt  rurales  pagi  quibus  ssepe  cum  otium  aga- 
mus,  post  prandium  imus.  Est  villa,  nomine  Whittonia, 
ubi  a  celsa  rupe  videre  potes  flumen  Trentii  vasto  Hum- 
bero  influens,  et  paulo  altius  Oosem  flumen. 

Infra  sub  opaca  saxa  fons  est,  cui  potestas  inest  in 
lapidem  materias  alienas  convertendi ;  ab  altissima  rupe 
labitur  in  littus,  museum,  conchas  et  fragiliores  ramos 
arborum  in  lapidem  transmutans.  In  prospectu  domus 
montes  Eboracenses  surgunt  trans  Humberum  siti,  sylvis 
et  villis  stipati,  nunc  solis  radiis  ridentes,  nunc  horridi 
nimbis  ac  procellis.  Vela  navium  ventis  impleta  ante 
fenestras  satis  longo  intervallo  prolabuntur  :  dum  supra 
in  acre  procelso  greges  anserum  vasta)  longo  clamore  vo- 
litant.     Sffip  in  animo  revolvo  verba  ista  Homeri : 

vdOt'  oQrt&vw  TiiTtiivwv  i&vta  noXka 
Xr,Ymv  tj  yiQcirwv,  t]  xvxvwv  Sovh)(o9tiQon\ 
u4ai(j)  tv  liiuwvi  KavaxQiQv  au(fi  Qfi-9()a, 
Ev(\a  y.ui  ivda  TioTon-rai  uyaXkufuvui  nrtqvyKiai, 
KXuYYtjSov  TiooyadiLoiTun-,  auaQar,'n  it  le  ).tt_uv)V' 
S2g  run'  tdvfa  nuU.u  vton-  arto  y.ui  xXioiauiv 
Eg  miiov  nqox^owo  2xuuaviqiov      etc. 

***** 

Vale.     Dum  vitales  auras  carpam, 

Tuus,  H.  K.  WHITE. 


2Q2  COMPLETE     WORKS 


TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

Winteringham,  20th  Oct.  1804. 


DEAR  KIRKE, 


We  are  safely  arrived,  and  comfortably  settled,  in  the 
parsonage  of  Winteringham.  The  house  is  most  delight- 
fully situated  close  by  the  church,  at  a  distance  from  the 
village,  and  with  delightful  gardens  behind,  and  the 
Humber  before.  The  family  is  very  agreeable,  and  the 
style  in  which  we  live  is  very  superior.  Our  tutor  is 
not  only  a  learned  man,  but  the  best  pastor,  and  most 
pleasing  domestic  man,  I  ever  met  with.  You  will  be 
glad  to  hear  we  are  thus  charmingly  situated.  I  have 
reason  to  thank  God  for  his  goodness  in  leading  me  to 
so  peaceful  and  happy  a  situation. 

The  year  which  now  lies  before  me,  I  shall,  with  the 
blessing  of  God,  if  1  am  spared,  employ  in  very  impor- 
tant pursuits  ;  and  I  trust  that  I  shall  come  away  not 
only  a  wiser,  but  a  better  man.  I  have  here  nothing  to 
interrupt  me — no  noise — no  society  to  disturb,  or  avoca- 
tions to  call  me  off,  and  if  I  do  not  make  considerable 
improvements,  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall. 

We  have  each  our  several  duties  to  perform  ;  and 
though  God  has  been  pleased  to  place  us  in  very  differ- 
ent walks  of  life,  yet  we  may  mutually  assist  each  other 
by  counsel,  by  admonition,  and  by  prayer.  My  calling 
is  of  a  nature  the  most  arduous  and  awful ;  /need  every 
assistance  from  above,  and  from  my  companions  in  the 
flesh  ;  and  no  advice  will  ever  be  esteemed  lightly  by 
me,  which  proceeds  from  a  servant  of  God,  however 
trifling,  or  however  ill  expressed.  If  your  immediate 
avocations  be  less  momentous,  and  less  connected  with 
the  world  to  come,  your  duty  is  not  the  less  certain,  or 
the  more  lightly  to  be  attended  to — you  are  placed  in  a 
situation  wherein  God  expects  from  you  according  to 
your  powers,  as  well  as  from  me  in  mine  :  and  there  are 
various  dark  and  occult  temptations,  of  which  you  are 
little  aware,  but  into  which  you  may  easily  and  imper- 
ceptibly fall,  unless  upheld  by  the  arm  of  Almighty  God. 
You  stand  in  need,  therefore,  to  exercise  a  constant  re- 
liance on  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  its  influences,  and  to 
watch  narrowly  your  own  heart,  that  it  conceive  no  se- 


I 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  263 

cret  sin  :  for  although  your  situation  be  not  so  danger- 
ous, nor  your  duties  so  difficult,  yet,  as  the  masks  which 
Satan  assumes  are  various,  you  may  still  find  cause  for 
spiritual  fear  and  sorrow,  and  occasion  for  trembling, 
lest  you  should  not  have  exercised  your  talents  in  pro- 
portion to  their  extent.  It  is  a  valuable  observation, 
that  there  is  no  resting-place  in  the  spiritual  progress — 
we  must  either  go  backward  or  forward,  and  when  we 
are  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  our  motion  be  onward  or 
retrograde,  we  may  rest  assured,  that  there  is  some- 
thing wanting  which  must  be  supplied — some  evil  yet 
lurking  in  the  heart,  or  some  duty  slightly  performed. 

You  remember  I  heard  Mr.  *  *,  on  the  night  previous 
to  my  departure  ;  I  did  not  say  much  on  his  manner, 'but 
I  thought  it  neat,  and  the  sermon  far  better  than  I  ex- 
pected :  but  I  must  not  be  understood  to  approve  al- 
together of  Mr.  *  *'s  preaching.  I  think,  in  particular, 
he  has  one  great  fault,  that  is  elegance — he  is  not  suffi- 
ciently plain.  Remember,  we  do  not  mount  the  pulpit  to 
say  fine  things,  or  eloquent  things  ;  we  have  there  to 
proclaim  the  good  tidings  of  salvation  to  fallen  man  ;  to 
point  out  the  way  of  eternal  Hfe  ;  to  exhort,  to  cheer, 
and  to  support  the  suffering  sinner  :  these  are  the  glori- 
ous topics  upon  which  we  have  to  enlarge — and  will 
these  permit  the  tricks  of  oratory,  or  the  studied  beau- 
ties of  eloquence  ?  Shall  truths  and  counsels  like  these 
be  couched  in  terms  which  the  poor  and  ignorant  can- 
not comprehend  ? — Let  all  eloquent  preachers  beware, 
lest  they  fill  any  man's  ear  with  sounding  words,  when 
they  should  be  feeding  his  soul  with  the  bread  of  ever- 
lasting life  !  Let  them  fear,  lest,  instead  of  honoring 
God,  they  honor  themselves  !  If  any  man  ascend  the 
pulpit  with  the  intention  of  uttering  a  fine  thing,  he  is 
committing  a  deadly  sin.  Remember,  however,  that 
there  is  a  medium,  and  that  vulgarity  and  meanness  are 
cautiously  to  be  shunned  ;  but  while  we  speak  with  pro- 
priety and  chastity,  we  cannot  be  too  familiar  or  too 
plain.  I  do  not  intend  to  apply  these  remarks  to  Mr.  *  * 
individually,  but  to  the  manner  of  preaching  here  allud- 
ed to.  If  his  manner  be  such  as  I  have  here  described, 
the  observations  will  also  fit  ;  but,  if  it  be  otherwise,  the 
remarks  refer  not  to  him,  but  to  the  style  reprobated. 


264  COMPLETE    WORKS 

I  recommend  to  you,  always  before  you  begin  to  study, 
to  pray  to  God  to  enlighten  your  understanding,  and 
give  you  grace  to  behold  all  things  through  the  medium 
of  religion.  This  was  always  the  practice  in  the  old 
universities,  and,  I  believe,  is  the  only  way  to  profit  by 
learning. 

I  can  now  only  say  a  few  words  to  you,  since  our 
regular  hour  of  retiring  fast  approaches.  I  hope  you 
are  making  progress  in  spiritual  things,  proportionably 
to  your  opportunities,  and  that  you  are  sedulously  en- 
deavouring, not  only  to  secure  your  own  acceptation, 
but  to  impart  the  light  of  truth  to  those  around  you  who 
still  remain  in  darkness. 

Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  at  your  convenience,  and 
my  brother  will  forward  the  letter  ;  and  believe  me. 

My  dear  Kirke,  your  friend,   and  fellow-traveller 
in  the  tearful  sojourn  of  life, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Winteringham,  Dec.  ]6th,  1804. 


MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 


Since  I  wrote  to  you  last  I  have  been  rather  ill, 
having  caught  cold,  which  brought  on  a  slight  fever. 
Thanks  to  excellent  nursing,  I  am  now  pretty  much 
recovered,  and  only  want  strength  to  be  perfectly  re- 
established. Mr.  Grainger  is  himself  a  very  good  phy- 
sician, but  when  I  grew  worse,  he  deemed  it  necessary 
to  send  for  a  medical  gentleman  from  Barton  ;  so  that, 
in  addition  to  my  illness,  I  expect  an  apothecary's  bill. 
This,  however,  will  not  be  a  very  long  one,  as  Mr. 
Grainger  has  chiefly  supplied  me  with  drugs.  It  is 
judged  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  take  wine,  and 
that  I  should  ride.  It  is  with  very  great  reluctance  that 
I  agree  to  incur  these  additional  expenses,  and  I  shall 
endeavour  to  cut  them  oft'  as  soon  as  possible.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Grainger  have  behaved  like  parents  to  me  since  I 
have  been  ill :  four  and  five  times  in  the  night  has  Mr.  G. 
come  to  see  me ;  and  had  I  been  at  home,  I  could  not 
have  been  treated  with  more  tenderness  and  care.     Mrs. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  265 

Grainger  has  insisted  on  my  drinking  their  wine,  and 
was  very  angry  when  I  made  scruples  ;  but  I  cannot  let 
them  be  at  all  this  additional  expense — in  some  way  or 
other  I  must  pay  them,  as  the  sum  I  now  give,  consid- 
ering the  mode  in  which  we  are  accommodated,  is  very 
trifling.  Mr.  Grainger  does  not  keep  a  horse,  so  that  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  hire  one  ;  but  there  will  be  no  occa- 
sion for  this  for  any  length  of  time,  as  my  strength  seems 
to  return  as  rapidly  as  it  was  rapidly  reduced.  Don't 
make  yourself  in  the  least  uneasy  about  this,  I  pray,  as 
I  am  quite  recovered,  and  not  at  all  apprehensive  of  any 
consequences.  I  have  no  cough,  nor  any  symptom 
which  might  indicate  an  affection  of  the  lungs.  I  read 
very  little  at  present. 

I  thought  it  necessary  to  write  to  you  on  this  subject 
now,  as  I  feared  you  might  have  an  exaggerated  account 
from  Mr.  Almond's  friends,  and  alarm  yourself. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringham,  Dec.  G7,  1804. 
MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 

I  HAVE  been  very  much  distressed  at  the  receipt  of 
your  letter,  accompanied  with  one  from  my  mother,  one 
from  my  sister,  and  from  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  Kirke 
Swann,  all  on  the  same  subject ;  and  greatly  as  I  feel 
for  all  the  kindness  and  affection  which  has  prompted 
these  remonstrances,  I  am  quite  harassed  with  the  idea 
that  you  should  not  have  taken  my  letter  as  a  plain  ac- 
count of  my  illness,  without  any  wish  to  hide  from  you 
that  I  had  been  ill  somewhat  seriously,  but  that  I  was 
indeed  better. 

I  can  now  assure  you,  that  I  am  perfectly  recovered, 
and  am  as  well  as  I  have  been  for  some  time  past.  My 
sickness  was  merely  a  slight  fever,  rather  of  a  nervous 
kind,  brought  on  by  a  cold,  and  soon  yielded  to  the  prop- 
er treatment.  I  do  assure  you,  simply  and  plainly,  that 
I  am  now  as  well  as  ever. 

With  regard  to  study,  I  do  assure  you  that  Mr.  Grain- 
ger will  not  suffer  us  to  study  at  all  hard ;  our  work  at 


COMPLETE    WORKS 

present  is  mere  play.  I  am  always  in  bed  at  ten  o'clock, 
and  take  two  walks  in  the  day,  besides  riding,  when  the 
weather  will  permit. 

Under  these  circumstances,  my  dear  brother  may  set 
his  mind  perfectly  at  ease.  Even  change  of  air  some- 
times occasions  violent  attacks,  but  they  leave  the  pa- 
tient better  than  they  found  him. 

I  still  continue  to  drink  wine,  though  I  am  convinced 
there  is  no  necessity  for  it.  My  appetite  is  amazingly 
large — much  larger  than  when  at  Nottingham. 

I  shall  come  to  an  arrangement  with  Mr.  Grainger 
immediately,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  write  to  him  about 
it.  If  Mr.  Eddy,  the  surgeon,  thinks  it  at  all  necessary 
for  me  to  do  this  constantly,  I  declare  to  you  that  I  will ; 
but  remember,  if  I  should  form  a  habit  of  this  now,  it 
may  be  a  disadvantage  to  me  when  possibly  circumstan- 
ces may  render  it  inconvenient — as  when  I  am  at  col- 
lege. 

My  spirits  are  completely  knocked  up  by  the  receipt 
of  all  the  letters  I  have  at  one  moment  received.  My 
mother  got  a  gentleman  to  mention  it  to  Mr.  Dashwood, 
and  still  representing  that  my  illness  was  occasioned  by 
study — a  thing  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  remote 
from  the  truth,  as  I  have,  from  conscientious  motives, 
given  up  hard  study  until  I  shall  find  my  health  better. 

I  cannot  write  more,  as  I  have  the  other  letters  to 
answer.  I  am  going  to  write  to  Barton,  expressly  to 
get  advantage  of  the  post  for  this  day,  in  order  that  you 
may  no  longer  give  yourself  a  moment's  uneasiness, 
where  there  is  in  reality  no  occasion. 

Give  my  affectionate  love  to  James,  and  believe  me, 
my  dear  Neville,  your  truly  affectionate  brother, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

One  thing  I  had  forgot — you  mention  my  pecuniary 
matters — you  make  me  blush  when  you  do  so.  You  may 
rest  assured  that  I  have  no  wants  of  that  kind,  nor  am 
likely  to  have  at  present.  Your  brotherly  love  and  anx- 
iety towards  me  have  sunk  deep  into  my  heart ;  and  you 
may  satisfy  yourself  with  this,  that  whatever  is  necessa- 
ry for  my  health  shall  not  be  spared,  and  that  when  I 
want  the  means  of  procuring  these,  I  shall  think  it  my 
duty  to  tell  you  so. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  267 

TO  HIS  BROTHER  JAMES. 

Midway  between  Winteringham  and  Hull,  Jan.  11th,  1805. 


DEAR  JAMES, 


You  will  not  be  surprised  at  the  style  of  this  letter, 
when  I  tell  you  it  is  written  in  the  Winteringham  Packet, 
on  a  heap  of  flour  bags  surrounded  by  a  drove  of  14  pigs, 
who  raise  the  most  hideous  roar  every  time  the  boat 
rolls.  I  write  with  a  silver  pen,  and  with  a  good  deal 
of  shaking,  so  you  may  expect  very  bad  scribbling.  I 
am  now  going  to  Hull,  where  I  have  a  parcel  to  send  to 
my  mother,  and  I  would  not  lose  the  opportunity  of 
writing. 

I  am  extremely  glad  that  you  are  attentive  to  matters 
of  such  moment  as  are  those  of  religion  ;  and  I  hope  you 
do  not  relax  in  your  seriousness,  but  continue  to  pray 
that  God  will  enable  you  to  walk  in  the  paths  of  right- 
eousness, which  alone  lead  to  peace.  He  alone,  my 
dear  James,  is  able  to  give  you  a  heart  to  delight  in  his 
service,  and  to  set  at  nought  the  temptations  of  the 
world.  It  may  seem  to  you,  in  the  first  beginning  of 
your  christian  progress,  that  religion  wears  a  very  un- 
promising aspect,  and  that  the  gayeties,  of  the  world  are 
indeed  very  delicious  ;  but  I  assure  you,  from  what  I 
have  myself  experienced,  that  the  pleasures  of  piety  are 
infinitely  more  exquisite  than  those  of  fashion  and  cJf 
sensual  pursuits.  It  is  true,  they  are  not  so  violent,  or 
so  intoxicating,  (for  they  consist  in  one  even  tenor  of 
mind,  a  lightness  of  heart,  and  sober  cheerfulness,  which 
none  but  those  who  have  experienced  can  conceive ;) 
but  they  leave  no  sting  behind  them  ;  they  give  pleasure 
on  reflection,  and  will  soothe  the  mind  in  the  distant 
prospect.  And  who  can  say  this  of  the  world,  or  its  en- 
joyments ? 

Even  those  who  seem  to  enter  with  the  most  spirit 
into  the  riotous  and  gaudy  diversions  of  the  world,  are 
often  known  to  confess  that  there  is  no  real  satisfaction 
in  them  ;  that  their  gayety  is  often  forced,  when  their 
hearts  are  heavy  ;  and  that  they  envy  those  who  have 
chosen  the  more  humble  but  pleasant  paths  of  religion 
and  virtue. 

I  am  not  at  all  particular  as  to  the  place  of  worship 


268  COMPLETE    WORKS 

you  may  attend,  so  as  it  be  under  a  serious  preacher, 
and  so  as  you  attend  regularly.  I  should  think  it  a  very 
good  exercise  for  you,  if  you  were  to  get  a  blank  paper 
book,  and  were  to  write  down  in  it  anything  which  may 
strike  you  in  the  sermons  you  hear  on  a  Sunday  ;  this 
would  improve  your  style  of  writing,  and  teach  you  to 
think  on  what  you  hear.  Pray  endeavour  to  carry  this 
plan  into  execution  :  I  am  sure  you  will  find  it  worth  the 
trouble.  You  attend  the  church  now  and  then,  I  con- 
clude, and  if  you  do,  I  should  wish  to  direct  your  atten- 
tion to  our  admirable  liturgy,  and  avoid,  if  possible, 
remarking  what  may  seem  absurd  in  the  manner  it  is 
repeated. 

I  must  not  conceal  from  you  that  I  am  very  sorry  you 
do  not  attend  some  eminent  minister  in  the  church,  such 
as  Mr.  Cecil,  or  Mr.  Pratt,  or  Mr.  Crowther,  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  meeting  :  since  I  am  convinced  a  man  runs 
less  danger  of  being  misled,  or  of  building  on  false  foun- 
dations, in  the  establishment,  than  out,  and  this  too  for 
plain  reasons  : — Dissenters  are  apt  to  think  they  are 
religious,  because  they  are  dissenters — 'for,'  argue  they, 
'  if  we  had  not  a  regard  for  religion,  why  should  we 
leave  the  establishment  at  all  ?  The  very  act  of  leaving 
it  shows  we  have  a  regard  for  religion,  because  we  mani- 
fest an  aversion  to  its  abuses.'  Besides  this,  at  the 
meeting-house  you  are  not  likely  to  hear  plain  and  un- 
welcome truths  so  honestly  told  as  in  the  church,  where 
the  minister  is  not  so  dependent  on  his  flock,  and  the 
prayers  are  so  properly  selected,  that  you  will  meet  with 
petitions  calculated  for  all  your  wants,  bodily  and  spirit- 
ual, without  being  left  at  the  mercy  of  the  minister  to 
pray  for  what  and  in  what  manner  he  likes.  Remember 
these  are  not  offered  as  reasons  why  you  should  always 
attend  the  church,  but  to  put  you  in  mind  that  there 
are  advantages  there  which  you  should  avail  yourself 
of,  instead  of  making  invidious  comparisons  between  the 
two  institutions. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  269 

TO  MR.  B.  mIdDOCK. 

Winteringham,  Jan.  31st,  1805. 
DEAR  BEN, 

I  HAVE  long  been  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what  you 
say,  respecting  the  effects  of  close  reading  on  a  man's 
mind,  in  a  religious  point  of  view,  and  I  am  more  and 
more  convinced  that  literature  is  very  rarely  the  source 
of  satisfaction  of  mind  to  a  Christian.  I  would  wish 
you  to  steer  clear  of  too  abstracted  and  subtile  a  mode 
of  thinking  and  reasoning,  and  you  will  so  be  happier 
than  your  friend.  A  relish  for  books  will  be  a  sweet 
source  of  amusement,  and  a  salutary  relaxation  to  you 
throughout  life  ;  but  let  it  not  be  more  than  a  relish,  if 
you  value  your  own  peace.  I  think,  however,  that  you 
ought  to  strengthen  your  mind  a  little  with  logic,  and 
for  this  purpose  I  would  advise  you  to  go  through  Euclid 
with  sedulous  and  serious  attention,  and  likewise  to 
read  Duncan  through.  You  are  too  desultory  a  reader, 
and  regard  amusement  too  much  :  if  you  wish  your  read- 
ing in  good  earnest  to  amuse  you  when  you  are  old,  as 
well  as  now  in  your  youth,  you  will  take  care  to  form  a 
taste  for  substantial  and  sound  authors,  and  will  not  be 
the  less  eager  to  study  a  work  because  it  requires  a  lit- 
tle labor  to  understand  it. 

After  you  have  read  Euclid,  and  amused  yourself 
with  Locke's  sublime  speculations,  you  will  derive  much 
pleasure  from  Butler's  Analogy,  without  exception  the 
most  unanswerable  demonstration  of  the  folly  of  infideli- 
ty that  the  world  ever  saw. 

Books  like  these  will  give  you  more  strength  of  mind, 
and  consistent  firmness,  than  either  you  or  I  now  pos- 
sess ;  while  on  the  other  hand,  the  effeminate  Panada 
of  Magazines,  Tales,  and  the  tribe  of  penny-catching 
pamphlets,  of  which  desultory  readers  are  so  fond,  only 
tend  to  enervate  the  mind,  and  incapacitate  it  for  every 
species  of  manly  exertion. 

***** 

I  continue  to  be  better  in  health,  although  the  weath- 
er is  a  great  obstacle  to  my  taking  a  proper  proportion 
of  exercise.     I  have  had  a  trip  to  Hull  of  late,  and  saw 

the  famous  painter  R there,  with  whom  I  had  a 

23- 


270  COMPLETE    WORKS 

good  deal  of  talk.  He  ^  a  pious  man,  and  a  great  as- 
tronomer ;  but  in  manners  and  appearance,  a  complete 
artist.  I  rather  think  he  is  inclined  to  Hutchin  onian 
principles,  and  entertains  no  great  reverence  for  Sir 
Isaac  Newton. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK 

Winteringham,  1st  March,  1805.  ^ 
MY  DEAR  BEN, 

***** 

I  HOPE  and  trust  that  you  have  at  length  arrived  at 
that  happy  temperament  of  disposition,  that  although 
you  have  much  cause  of  sadness  within,  you  are  yet 
willing  to  be  amused  with  the  variegated  scenes  around 
you,  and  to  join,  when  occasions  present  themselves,  in 
innocent  mirth.  Thus,  in  the  course  of  your  peregrina- 
tions, occurrences  must  continually  arise,  which,  to  a 
mind  willing  to  make  the  best  of  everything,  will  afford 
amusement  of  the  chastest  kind.  Men  and  manners  are 
a  never-failing  source  of  wonder  and  surprise,  as  they 
present  themselves  in  their  various  phases.  We  may 
very  innocently  laugh  at  the  brogue  of  a  Somerset  peas- 
ant— and  I  should  think  that  person  both  cynical  and 
surly,  who  could  pass  by  a  group  of  laughing  children, 
without  participating  in  their  delight,  and  joining  in  their 
laugh.  It  is  a  truth  most  undeniable,  and  most  melan- 
choly, that  there  is  too  much  in  human  life  which  extorts 
tears  and  groans,  rather  than  smiles.  This,  however, 
is  equally  certain,  that  our  giving  way  to  unremitting 
sadness  on  these  accounts,  so  far  from  ameliorating  the 
condition  of  mortality,  only  adds  to  the  aggregate  of  hu- 
man misery,  and  throws  a  gloom  over  those  moments 
when  a  ray  of  light  is  permitted  to  visit  the  dark  valley 
of  life,  and  the  heart  ought  to  be  making  the  best  of  its 
fleeting  happiness.  Landscape,  too,  ought  to  be  a  source 
of  delight  to  you  ;  fine  buildings,  objects  of  nature,  and 
a  thousand  things  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  name. 
I  should  call  the  man,  who  could  survey  such  things  as 
these  without  being  affected  with  pleasure,  either  a  very 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  271 

weak-minded  and  foolish  person,  or  one  of  no  mind  at 
all.  To  be  always  sad,  and  always  pondering  on  inter- 
nal griefs,  is  what  I  call  utter  selfishness  :  I  would  not 
give  two-pence  for  a  being  who  is  locked  up  in  his  own 
sufferings,  and  whose  heart  cannot  respond  to  the  exhil- 
arating cry  of  nature,  or  rejoice  because  he  sees  others 
rejoice.  The  loud  and  unanimous  chirping  of  the  birds 
on  a  fine  sunny  morning  pleases  me,  because  I  see  they 
are  happy  ;  and  I  should  be  very  selfish,  did  I  not  partici- 
pate in  their  seeming  joy.  Do  not,  however,  suppose 
that  I  mean  to  exclude  a  man's  own  sorrows  from  his 
thoughts,  since  that  is  an  impossibility,  and,  were  it 
possible,  would  be  prejudicial  to  the  human  heart.  I 
only  mean  that  the  whole  mind  is  not  to  be  incessantly 
engrossed  with  its  cares,  but  with  cheerful  elasticity  to 
bend  itself  occasionally  to  circumstances,  and  give  way 
without  hesitation  to  pleasing  emotions.  To  be  pleased 
with  little,  is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings. 

Sadness  is  itself  sometimes  infinitely  more  pleasing 
than  joy  ;  but  this  sadness  must  be  of  the  expansive  and 
generous  kind,  rather  referring  to  mankind  at  large, 
than  the  individual ;  and  this  is  a  feeling  not  incompati- 
ble with  cheerfulness  and  a  contented  spirit.  There  is 
difficulty,  however,  in  setting  bounds  to  a  pensive  dispo- 
sition ;  I  have  felt  it,  and  I  have  felt  that  I  am  not  al- 
ways adequate  to  the  task.  I  sailed  from  Hull  to  Bar- 
ton the  day  before  yesterday,  on  a  rough  and  windy 
day,  in  a  vessel  filled  with  a  marching  regiment  of  sol- 
diers ;  the  band  played  finely,  and  I  was  enjoying  the 
many  pleasing  emotions,  which  the  water,  sky,  winds, 
and  musical  instruments  excited,  when  my  thoughts 
were  suddenly  called  away  to  more  melancholy  subjects. 
A  girl,  genteelly  dressed,  and  with  a  countenance  which, 
for  its  loveliness,  a  painter  might  have  copied  for  Hebe, 
with  a  loud  laugh  seized  me  by  the  great  coat,  and  ask- 
ed me  to  lend  it  her :  she  was  one  of  those  unhappy 
creatures  who  depend  on  the  brutal  and  licentious  for  a 
bitter  livelihood,  and  was  now  following  in  the  train  of  one 
of  the  officers.  I  was  greatly  affected  by  her  appearance 
and  situation,  and  more  so  by  that  of  another  female 
who  was  with  her,  and  who,  with  less  beauty,  had  a 
wild  sorrowfulness  in  her  face,  which  showed  she  knew 
her  situation.     This  incident,  apparently  trifling,  induced 


212  COMPLETE    WORKS 

a  train  of  reflections,  which  occupied  me  fully  during"  a 
walk  of  six  or  seven  miles  to  our  parsonage.  At  first  I 
wished  that  I  had  fortune  to  erect  an  asylum  for  all  the 
miserable  and  destitute  : — and  there  was  a  soldier's  wife 
with  a  wan  and  haggard  face,  and  a  little  infant  in  her 
arms,  whom  I  would  also  have  wished  to  place  in  it : — I 
then  grew  out  of  humor  with  the  world,  because  it  was 
so  unfeeling  and  so  miserable,  and  because  there  was  no 
cure  for  its  miseries  ;  and  I  wished  for  a  lodging  in  the 
wilderness  where  I  might  hear  no  more  of  wrongs,  af- 
fliction, or  vice  :  but,  after  all  my  speculations,  I  found 
there  was  a  reason  for  these  things  in  the  Gospel  of  Je- 
sus Christ,  and  that  to  those  who  sought  it  there  was 
also  a  cure.  So  I  banished  my  vain  meditations,  and, 
knowing  that  God's  providence  is  better  able  to  direct 
the  affairs  of  men  than  our  wisdom,  I  leave  them  in  his 
hands. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Winteringham,  5th  Feb.  1805. 
DEAR  MOTHER, 

♦  ♦  *  #  » 

The  spectacles  for  my  father  are,  I  hope,  such  as  will 
enable  him  to  read  with  ease,  although  they  are  not  set  in 
silver.  If  they  hurt  him  through  stiffness,  I  think  the 
better  way  will  be  to  wear  them  with  the  two  end  joints 
shut  to^  and  with  a  piece  of  ribbon  to  go  round  the  back  of 
the  head,  &c.  The  Romaine's  Sermons,  and  the  Cheap 
Tracts,  are  books  which  I  thought  might  be  useful.  You 
may  think  I  am  not  privileged  to  make  presents,  since 
they  will  in  the  end  come  out  of  your  piocket ;  but  I  am 
not  in  want  of  cash  at  present,  and  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve, from  my  own  calculations,  I  shall  not  have  occa- 
sion to  call  upon  you  for  what  I  know  you  can  so  ill  spare. 
I  was  quite  vexed  afterwards  that  I  did  not  send  you  all 
the  volumes  of  the  Cheap  Repository,  as  the  others, 
which  are  the  general  tracts,  and  such  as  are  more  enter- 
taining, would  have  been  well  adapted  to  your  library. 
When  I  next  go  to  Hull,  I  purpose  buying  the  remaining 


OF    H.    K.  -WHITE.  273 

volumes  ;  and  when  I  next  have  occasion  to  send  a  par- 
cel, you  will  receive  them.  The  volume  you  have  got 
contains  all  the  Sunday  reading  tracts,  and  on  that  ac- 
count I  send  it  separately.  As  I  have  many  things  to 
remind  me  of  my  sister  Smith,  I  thought  (though  we 
neither  of  us  need  such  mementos)  that  she  would  not 
be  averse  to  receive  the  sermons  of  the  great  and  good, 
though  in  some  respects  singular,  Romaine,  at  my 
hands,  as  what  old-fashioned  people  call  a  token  of  a 
brother'' s  love,  but  what  in  more  courtly  phrase  is  denomi- 
nated a  memento  of  affection. 


TO   MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 

Winteringham.  17th  Feb.  1805. 
MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  BLUSH  when  I  look  back  to  the  date  of  your  too  long 
unanswered  letter,  and  were  I  not  satisfied  that  the  con- 
tents of  my  sheet  of  post  must  always  be  too  unimpor- 
tant to  need  apology,  I  should  now  make  one. 

The  fine  and  spirited  song  (song  in  the  noblest  sense 
of  the  word)  which  you  sent  me,  on  the  projected  inva- 
sion, demands  my  best  thanks.  The  fervid  patriotism 
which  animates  it  would,  I  think,  find  an  echo  in  every 
bosom  in  England  ;  and  I  hope  and  trust  the  world  has 
not  been  deprived  of  so  appropriate  an  exhortation.  I 
perceive,  however,  one  thing,  which  is,  that  your  fire  has 
been  cramped  by  the  '  crambo  '  of  the  rhyme,  at  all  times 
a  grievous  shackle  to  poets,  and  yet  capable  of  such 
sweet  and  expressive  modulation,  as  makes  us  hug  our 
chains,  and  exult  in  the  hard  servitude.  My  poor  neg- 
lected muse  has  lain  absolutely  unnoticed  by  me  for  the 
last  four  months,  during  which  period  I  have  been  dig- 
ging in  the  mines  of  Scapula  for  Greek  roots  ;  and  instead 
of  drinking,  with  eager  delight,  the  beauties  of  Virgil, 
have  been  cutting  and  drying  his  phrases  for  future  use. 
The  place  where  I  live  is  on  the  banks  of  the  Humber  : 
here  no  Sicilian  river,  but  rough  with  cold  winds,  and 
bordered  with  killing  swamps.  What  with  neglect,  and 
what  with  the  climate,  so  congenial  to  rural  meditation,  I 
fear  my  good  Genius,  who  was  wont  to  visit  me  with 


274  COMPLETE    WORKS 

nightly  visions  '  in  woods  and  brakes,  and  by  the  river^s 
marge,'  is  now  dying  of  a  fen-ague ;  and  I  shall  thus 
probably  emerge  from  my  retreat,  not  a  hair-brained  son 
of  imagination,  but  a  sedate  black-lettered  book-worm, 
with  a  head  like  an  etymologicon  magnum. 

Forgive  me  this  flippancy,  in  which  I  am  not  very  apt 
to  indulge,  and  let  me  ofler  my  best  wishes  that  it  is  not 
with  your  muse  as  with  mine.  Eloquence  has  always 
been  thought  akin  to  poetry  :  though  her  efforts  are  not 
so  effectually  perpetuated,  she  is  not  the  less  honored,  or 
her  memory  the  less  carefully  preserved.  Many  very 
plausible  hypotheses  are  contradicted  by  facts,  yet  I 
should  imagine  that  the  genius  which  prompted  your 
'  Conspiracy '  would  be  no  common  basis  on  which  to 
erect  a  superstructure  of  oratorical  fame.  '  Est  enim 
oratori  finitimus  Poeta,  numeris  adstrictior  paulo,  ver- 
borum  autem  licentia  liberior,  multis  vero  ornandi  gene- 
ribus  socius,  ac  pene  par,'  &c.  You  no  doubt,  are  well 
acquainted  with  this  passage,  in  the  1st  Dial,  de  Orat.  so 
I  shall  not  go  on  with  it ;  but  I  encourage  a  hope,  that  I 
shall  one  day  see  a  living  proof  of  the  truth  of  this  posi- 
tion in  you.  Do  not  quite  exclude  me  from  a  kind  of 
fellow-feeling  with  you  in  your  oratorical  pursuits,  for 
you  know  I  must  make  myself  a  fit  herald  for  the  impor- 
tant message  I  am  ordained  to  deliver,  and  I  shall  be- 
stow some  pains  to  this  end.  No  inducement  whatever 
should  prevail  on  me  to  enter  into  orders,  if  I  were  not 
thoroughly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  religion  I  pro- 
fess, as  contained  in  the  New  Testament ;  and  I  hope 
that  whatever  I  know  to  be  the  truth,  I  shall  not  hesitate 
to  proclaim,  however  much  it  may  be  disliked  or  despised. 
The  discovery  of  Truth,  it  is  notorious,  ought  to  be  the 
object  of  all  true  philosophy  ;  and  the  attainment  of  this 
end  must,  to  a  philosopher,  be  the  greatest  of  all  possi- 
ble blessings.  If  then  a  man  be  satisfied  that  he  has 
arrived  at  the  fountain-head  of  pure  Truth,  and  yet,  be- 
cause the  generality  of  men  hold  different  sentiments, 
dares  not  avow  it,  but  tacitly  gives  assent  to  falsehood., 
he  withholds  from  men  what,  according  to  his  principles, 
it  is  for  their  good  to  know — he  prefers  his  personal  good 
to  Truth — and  he  proves  that,  whatever  he  may  profess, 
he  is  not  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  true  philosophy. 

I  have  some  intention  of  becomin«-  a  candidate  for  Sir 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  275 

William  Brown's  medals  this  year ;  and  if  I  should,  it 
would  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  subject  my  attempts 
to  so  good  a  classic  as  I  understand  you  to  be.  In  the 
mean  time,  you  will  confer  a  real  favor  on  me,  if  you  will 
transcribe  some  of  your  Latin  verses  for  me,  as  I  am  anx- 
ious to  see  the  general  character  of  modern  Latin  as  it  is 
received  at  Cambridge  :  and  elegant  verses  always  give 
me  great  pleasure,  in  whatever  language  I  read  them. 
Such  I  know  yours  will  be. 

«         «         «         «         * 

In  this  remote  corner  of  the  world,  where  we  have 
neither  books  nor  booksellers,  I  am  as  ignorant  of  the 
affairs  of  the  literary  world  as  an  inhabitant  of  Siberia. 
Sometimes  the  newspaper  gives  me  some  scanty  hints  ; 
but,  as  I  do  not  see  a  review,  I  cannot  be  said  to  hold 
converse  with  the  Republic.  Pray,  is  the  voice  of  the 
Muses  quite  suspended  in  the  clang  of  arms,  or  do  they 
yet  sing,  though  unheeded  ?  Jill  literary  information 
will  be  to  me  quite  new  and  interesting ;  but  do  not  sup- 
pose I  hope  to  intrude  on  your  more  valuable  time  with 
these  things.  When  you  shall  have  leisure,  I  hope  to 
hear  from  you  ;  and  whatever  you  say,  coming  from  you, 
it  cannot  fail  to  interest. 

Believe  me,  dear  sir,  very  sincerely  yours. 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

WinterioghaiD,  16th  March,  1805. 


DEAR  KIRKE, 


I  WAS  affected  by  the  death  of  young  B .     He  once 

called  upon  me  with  Mr.  H ,  when  I  was  very  ill,  and 

on  that  occasion  Mr.  H said  to  us  both,  'Young  men, 

I  would  have  you  both  pack  off  to  Lisbon^  for  you  icont  last  long 

if  you  stay  here.''     Mr.  H was  then  about  to  set  out 

for  Hamburgh  ;  and  he  told  me  afterwards  that  he  never 
expected  to  see  me  again,  for  that  he  thought  I  was  more 

desperately  gone  in  consumption  than  B .  Yet  you 

see  how  the  good  providence  of  God  has  spared  me,  and 


276  COMPLETE    WORKS 

I  am  yet  living,  as  I  trust,  to  serve  Ijim  with  all  my 
strength.  Had  I  died  then,  I  should  have  perished  for- 
ever ;  but  I  have  now  hope,  through  the  Lord  Jesus,  that 
I  shall  see  the  day  of  death  with  joy,  and  possibly  be  the 
means  of  rescuing  others  from  a  similar  situation.  I  cer- 
tainly thought  of  the  ministry  at  first  with  improper  mo- 
tives, and  my  views  of  Christianity  were  for  a  long  time 
very  obscure  ;  but  I  have,  I  trust,  gradually  been  grow- 
ing out  of  darkness  into  light,  and  I  feel  a  well  grounded 
hope,  that  God  has  sanctified  my  heart  for  great  and  valu- 
able purposes.     Wo  unto  me  if  I  frustrate  his  designs  ! 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringham,  April,  1805. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

***** 

You  wrote  me  a  long  sheet  this  last  time,  and  I  have 
every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  yet  I  sometimes  wish 
I  could  make  you  write  closer  and  smaller.  Since  your 
mind  must  necessarily  be  now  much  taken  up  with  other 
things,  I  dare  not  press  my  former  inquiries  on  subjects 
of  reading.  When  your  leisure  season  comes,  I  shall  be 
happy  to  hear  from  you  on  these  topics. 

It  is  a  remark  of  an  ancient  philosophical  poet, 
(Horace,)  that  every  man  thinks  his  neighbour's  condi- 
tion happier  than  his  own  ;  and,  indeed,  common  expe- 
rience shows,  that  we  are  too  apt  to  entertain  romantic 
notions  of  absent,  and  to  think  meanly  of  present  things  ; 
to  extol  what  we  have  had  no  experience  of,  and  to  be 
discontented  with  what  we  possess.  The  man  of  busi- 
ness sighs  for  the  sweets  of  leisure :  the  person  who, 
with  a  taste  for  reading,  has  few  opportunities  for  it, 
thinks  that  man's  life  the  sum  of  bliss,  who  has  nothing 
to  do  but  to  study.  Yet  it  often  happens  that  the  condi- 
tion of  the  envier  is  happier  than  that  of  the  envied. 
You  have  read  Dr.  Johnson's  tale  of  the  poor  Tallow- 
chandler,  who,  after  sighing  for  the  quiet  of  country 
life,  at  length  scraped  money  enough  to  retire,  but  found 
his  long-sought-for  leisure  so  insupportable,  that  he 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  277 

made  a  voluntary  offer  to  his  successor  to  come  up  to 
town  every  Friday,  and  melt  tallow  for  him  gratis.  It 
would  be  so  with  half  the  men  of  business,  who  sigh  so 
earnestly  for  the  sweets  of  retirement ;  and  you  may  re- 
ceive it  as  one  of  the  maturest  observations  I  have  been 
able  to  make  on  human  life,  that  there  is  no  condition 
so  happy  as  that  of  him  who  leads  a  life  of  full  and  con- 
stant employment.  His  amusements  have  a  zest  which 
men  of  pleasure  would  gladly  undergo  all  his  drudgery 
to  experience  :  and  the  regular  succession  of  business, 
provided  his  situation  be  not  too  anxious,  drives  away 
from  his  brain  those  harassing  speculations  which  are 
continually  assaulting  the  man  of  leisure,  and  the  man 
of  reading.  The  studious  man,  though  his  pleasures  are 
of  the  most  refined  species,  finds  cares  and  disturbing 
thoughts  in  study.  To  think  much  and  deeply  will  soon 
make  a  man  sad.  His  thoughts,  ever  on  the  wing,  often 
carry  him  where  he  shudders  to  be  even  in  imaginatiQn, 
He  is  like  a  man  in  sleep — sometimes  his  dreams  are 
pleasing,  but  at  others,  horror  itself  takes  possession  of 
his  imagination  ;  and  this  inequality  of  mind  is  almost 
inseparable  from  much  meditation  and  mental  exercise. 
From  this  cause  it  often  happens,  that  lettered  and  phi- 
losophical men  are  peevish  in  their  tempers,  and  austere 
in  their  manners.  The  inference  I  would  draw  from 
these  remarks  is  generally  this,  that  although  every  man 
carries  about  him  the  seeds  of  happiness  or  misery  in  his 
own  bosom,  yet  it  is  a  truth  not  liable  to  many  excep- 
tions, that  men  are  more  equally  free  from  anxiety  and 
care,  in  proportion  as  they  recede  from  the  more  refined 
and  mental,  to  the  grosser  and  bodily  employments  and 
modes  of  life,  but  that  the  happiest  condition  is  placed 
in  the  middle,  between  the  extremes  of  both.  Thus  a 
person  with  a  moderate  love  of  reading,  and  few  oppor- 
tunities of  indulging  it,  would  be  inclined  to  envy  one 
in  my  situation,  because  such  a  one  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  read  :  but  I  could  tell  him,  that  though  my  studi- 
ous pleasures  are  more  comprehensive  than  his,  they 
are  not  more  exquisite,  and  that  an  occasional  banquet 
gives  more  delight  than  a  continual  feast.  Reading 
should  be  dearer  to  you  than  to  me,  because  I  always 
read,  and  you  but  seldom. 
24 


278  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Almond  and  I  took  a  small  boat  on  Monday,  and  set 
out  for  Hull,  a  distance  of  thirteen  miles,  as  some  com- 
pute it,  though  others  make  it  less.  We  went  very 
merrily  with  a  good  pair  of  oars,  until  we  came  within 
four  miles  of  Hull,  when,  owing  to  some  hard  working, 
we  were  quite  exhausted  ;  but  as  the  tide  was  nearly 
down,  and  the  shore  soft,  we  could  not  get  to  any  villa- 
ges on  the  banks.  At  length  we  made  Hull,  and  just 
arrived  in  time  to  be  grounded  in  the  middle  of  the  har- 
bour, witl),out  any  possible  means  of  getting  ashore  till 
the  flux  or  flood.  As  we  were  half  famished,  I  deter- 
mined to  wade  ashore  for  provisions,  and  had  the  satis- 
faction of  getting  above  the  knees  in  mud  almost  every 
step  I  made.  When  I  got  ashore,  I  recollected  I  had 
given  Almond  all  my  cash.  This  was  a  terrible  dilemma 
— to  return  back  was  too  laborious,  and  I  expected  the 
tide  flowing  every  minute.  At  last  I  determined  to  go 
to  the  inn  where  we  usually  dine  when  we  go  to  Hull, 
and  try  how  much  credit  I  possessed  there,  and  I  hap- 
pily found  no  difficulty  in  procuring  refreshments,  which 
I  carried  off*  in  triumph  to  the  boat.  Here  new  difficul- 
ties occurred ;  for  the  tide  had  flowed  in  considerably 
during  my  absence,  although  not  sufliciently  to  move  the 
boat,  so  that  my  wade  was  much  worse  back  than  it 
had  been  before.  On  our  return,  a  most  placid  and 
calm  day  was  converted  into  a  cloudy  one,  and  we  had 
a  brisk  gale  in  our  teeth.  Knowing  we  were  quite  safe, 
we  struck  across  from  Hull  to  Barton  ;  and  when  we 
were  off"  Hazel  Whelps,  a  place  which  is  always  rough, 
we  had  some  tremendous  swells,  which  we  weathered 
admirably,  and  (bating  our  getting  on  the  wrong  side  of 
a  bank,  owing  to  the  deceitful  appearance  of  the  coast) 
we  had  a  prosperous  voyage  home,  having  rowed  twenty- 
six  miles  in  less  than  five  hours. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  279 

TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

Winteringham,  April  6th,  1805. 

MY  DEAR  KIRKE, 

***** 
***** 

Your  complaint  of  the  lukewarmness  of  your  affections 
towards  spiritual  things,  is  a  very  common  one  with 
Christians.  We  all  feel  it ;  and  if  it  be  attended  with  an 
earnest  desire  to  acquit  ourselves  in  this  respect,  and  to 
recover  our  wonted  fervor,  it  is  a  complaint  indicative 
of  our  faithfulness.  In  cases  of  Christian  experience,  I 
submit  my  own  opinion  to  any  body's,  and  have  too  se- 
rious a  distrust  of  it  myself,  to  offer  it  as  a  rule  or  maxim 
of  unquestionable  authority  ;  but  I  have  found,  and  think, 
that  the  best  remedy  against  lukewarmness,  is  an  obsti- 
nate persisting  in  prayer,  until  our  affections  be  moved  ; 
and  a  regular  habit  of  going  to  religious  duties  with  a 
prepared  and  meek  heart,  thinking  more  of  obtaining 
communion  with  God,  than  of  spending  so  many  rmnutes 
in  seeking  it.  Thus,  when  we  pray,  we  must  not  kneel 
down  with  the  idea  that  we  are  to  spend  so  many  min- 
utes in  supplication,  and  after  the  usual  time  has  elapsed, 
go  about  our  regular  business  ;  we  must  remind  ourselves 
that  we  have  an  object  in  prayer,  and  that  until  that  ob- 
ject be  attained,  that  is,  until  we  are  satisfied  that  our 
Father  hears  us,  we  are  not  to  conceive  that  our  duty  is 
performed,  although  we  may  be  in  the  posture  of  prayer 
for  an  hour. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Winteringham,  12th  April,  1805. 


MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 


I  HAVE  constructed  a  planetarium,  or  orrery,  of  a  very 
simple  kind,  which  cannot  fail  to  give  even  children  an 
idea  of  the  order  and  course  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  ^  I 
shall  write  a  few  plain  and  simple  lectures  upon  it,  with 
lessons  to  be  got  off  by  heart  by  the  children,  so  that  you 


280  COMPLETE    WORKS 

will  be  able,  without  any  difficulty,  to  teach  them  the 
rudiments  of  astronomy.  The  machine,  simple  as  it  may 
seem, is  such  that  you  cannot  fail  to  understand  the  plan- 
etary system  by  it ;  and  were  it  not  that  I  cannot  afford 
the  additional  expense,  I  could  make  it  much  more  com- 
plete and  interesting.  You  must  not  expect  anything 
striking-  in  the  instrument  itself,  as  it  only  consists  of  an 
index-plate,  with  rods  and  balls. — It  will  explain  the  situ- 
ation of  the  planets,  their  courses,  the  motion  of  the  earth 
and  moon,  the  causes  of  the  seasons^  the  different  lengths 
of  day  and  night,  the  reason  of  eclipses,  transits,  «Slc. 
When  you  have  seen  it,  and  read  the  explanatory  lec- 
tures, you  will  be  able  to  judge  of  its  plainness  ;  and  if 
you  find  you  understand  it,  you  may  teach  geography 
scholars  its  use.  Should  it  fail  in  other  points  of  view,  it 
will  be  useful  to  Maria  and  Catharine. 

***** 

Remember  to  keep  up  the  plan  of  family  worship  on 
Sundays  with  strictness  until  I  come,  and  it  will  probably 
pave  the  way  for  still  further  improvements,  which  I  may, 
perhaps,  have  an  opportunity  of  making  while  I  stay  with 
you.  Let  Maria  and  Catharine  be  more  particularly 
taught  to  regard  Sunday  as  a  day  set  apart  from  all  world- 
ly occupations. — Let  them  have  everything  prepared  for 
the  Sabbath  on  the  preceding  day ;  and  be  carefully 
warned,  on  that  day  in  particular,  to  avoid  paying  too 
great  an  attention  to  dress.  I  know  how  important 
habits  like  these  will  be  to  their  future  happiness  even  in 
this  world,  and  I  therefore  press  this  with  earnestness. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringham,  20th  May,  1805. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

***** 

My  first  business  must  be  to  thank  you  for  the  *  *  *  *, 
which  I  received  by  Mr.  K.  Swann  ;  you  must  not  sup- 
pose that  I  feel  reluctance  to  lie  under  obligations  to  so 
affectionate  a  brother,  when  I  say,  that  I  have  felt  un- 
easy ever  since  on  more  accounts  than  one.     I  am  con- 


OF    H.   k.    WHITE.  281 

vinced,  in  the  first  place,  that  you  have  little  to  spare  ; 
and  I  fear,  in  the  second,  that  I  shall  prove  a  hinderance 
to  a  measure  which  I  know  to  be  necessary  for  your 
health  :  I  mean  your  going  to  some  watering-place  for  the 
benefit  of  sea-bathing.  I  am  aware  of  the  nature  of  in- 
juries received  at  the  joints,  especially  the  knee  ;  and  I 
am  sure  nothing  will  strengthen  your  knee  more  for  the 
present,  and  prevent  the  recurrence  of  disease  in  it  for 
the  future.  I  would  have  you,  therefore,  if  by  any  means 
you  can  be  spared  in  London,  go  to  one  of  the  neigh- 
bouring coasts,  and  take  sufficient  time  to  recover  your 
strength.  You  may  pitch  upon  some  pleasant  place, 
where  there  will  be  sufficient  company  to  amuse  you, 
and  not  so  much  as  to  create  bustle,  and  make  a  toil  of 
reflection,  and  turn  retirement  into  riot.  Since  you 
must  be  as  sensible  as  I  am,  that  this  is  necessary  for 
your  health,  I  shall  feel  assured,  if  you  do  not  go,  that  I 
am  the  cause,  a  consideration  I  would  gladly  spare, my- 
self. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  June,  1S05. 
MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 

I  WROTE  you  a  long  letter  from  Winteringham  some 
time  ago,  which  I  now  apprehend  you  have  never  re- 
ceived, or,  if  you  have,  some  more  important  concerns 
have  occupied  your  time  than  writing  to  me  on  general 
subjects.  Feeling,  however,  rather  weary  to-night,  I 
have  determined  to  send  this  sheet  to  you,  as  a  proof 
that,  if  I  am  not  a  punctual,  I  am  certainly  far  from  a 
ceremonious  correspondent. 

Our  adventure  on  the  Humber  you  should  have  learn- 
ed from  K.  Swann,  who,  with  much  minuteness,  filled 
up  three  sides  of  a  letter  to  his  friend  with  the  account. 
The  matter  was  simply  this  :  He,  Almond,  and  myself, 
made  an  excursion  about  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  up 
the  Humber ;  on  our  return  ran  aground,  were  left  by 
the  tide  on  a  sand-bank,  and  were  obliged  to  remain  six 
hours  in  an  open  boat  exposed  to  a  heavy  rain,  high 
24* 


COMPLETE    WORKS 


wind,  and  piercing  cold,  until  the  tide  rose,  when  two 
men  brought  a  boat  to  our  assistance.  We  got  home 
about  twelve  o'clock  at  night  :  no  evil  consequences 
ensued,  owing  to  our  using  every  exertion  we  could 
think  of  to  keep  warmth  in  our  bodies. 


TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLES  WORTH. 

Nottingham.  27th  June  1805. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

It  is  sometime  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  still  longer 
since  I  heard  from  you  ;  but  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
unceremonious  disposition,  and  will,  I  hope,  pardon  me 
for  obtruding  an  unbidden  guest  on  your  notice.  I  have 
a  question  to  ask  of  you  in  the  first  place,  and  I  shall 
then  fill  up  my  letter  with  all  the  familiarity  of  a  man 
talking  by  your  side,  and  saying  anything,  rather  than 
be  accused  of  saying  nothing.  My  leisure  will  scarcely 
permit  me  to  write  to  you  again  while  I  am  here,  and  I 
shall  therefore  make  the  best  use  of  the  present  occa- 
sion. 

***** 

We  have  been  fagging  through  RoUin's  Ancient  His- 
tory, and  some  other  historical  books,  as  I  believe,  to  no 
great  purpose.  Rollin  is  a  valuable  and  truly  pious 
writer,  but  so  crammed  and  garnished  with  reflections, 
that  you  lose  the  thread  of  the  story,  while  the  poor  man 
is  prosing  about  the  morality  of  it  ;  when,  too,  after  all, 
the  moral  is  so  obvious  as  not  to  need  insisting  upon. 
You  may  give  my  compliments  to  your  good  friends 
Galen,  Hippocrates,  and  Paracelsus,  and  tell  them  I 
had  much  rather  pay  them  my  devoirs  at  a  distance, 
than  come  into  close  contact  with  them  or  their  cathar- 
tics. Medical  Greek,  and  Medical  Latin,  would  act  as  a 
sudorific  upon  any  man,  who  should  hear  their  tremen- 
dous technicals  pronounced  with  the  true  ore  rotundo  of 
a  Scotch  physician. 

And  now,  my  dear  sir,  we  will  cry  a  truce  to  flippan- 
cy—I have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  indulge  in  it 
to  excess.     You  and  I  have  been  sometime  asunder  in 


I 


OF    II.    K.    WHITE.  2SS 

the  pursuit  of  our  several  studies  ;  you  to  the  lively  and 
busy  seat  of  gayety,  fashion,  and  folly  ; — I  to  the  retired 
haunts  of  a  secluded  village,  and  the  studious  walls  of  a 
silent  and  ancient  parsonage.     At  first  sight  one  would 
think  that  my  lot  had  been  most  profitable,  as  undoubt- 
edly it  is  most  secure  ;  but  when  we  come  to  consider 
the  present  state  of  things  in  the  capital,  the  boundless 
opportunities  of  spiritual  improvement  which  offer  them- 
selves, and  the  very  superior  society  which  every  seri- 
ous man  may  there  join  with,  the  tables  seem  turned  in 
your  favor.     I  hope  and  trust  this  is  really  the  case,  and 
that,  with  philosophical  strength  of  mind,  you  have  turn- 
ed an  unregarding  ear  to  the  voice  of  folly,  and  contin- 
ued fixed  upon  the  serener  and  far  more  exquisite  occu- 
pations of  a  religious  life.     I  have  been  cultivating  in 
retirement  by  slow  and  imperceptible  degrees,  a  closer 
communion  with  God  ;  but  you  have  been  led,  as  it  were, 
in  triumph  by  the  energetic  discourses  of  the  many  good 
men  whom  you  have  had  the  opportunity  of  hearing-,  to 
heights  of  religious  satisfaction,  which  I  can  at  present 
only  sigh  for  at  a  distance.     I  appeal  to  you  whether 
the  grace  of  God  is  not  the  source  of  exquisite  enjoy- 
ments ?     What  can  be  more  delightful  than  that  sweet 
and  placid  calm  which  it  casts  over  one's  mind  ;  or  than 
the  tenderness  it  sheds  abroad  in  our  hearts,  both  with 
regard  to  God,   and  our  poor  fellow-laborers  .''     Even 
worldly-minded  men  confess  that  this  life  is,  at  best,  but 
a  scene  of  anxiety,  and  disappointment,  and  distress. 
How  absurd  then,  and  inconsistent  must  be  their  con- 
duct, when,  in  spite  of  this  so  general  and  confirmed  an 
experience,  they  neglect  what  can  alone  alleviate  the 
sorrows  of  this  life,  and  provide  for  the  happiness  of  the 
next  ?     How  much  more  is  he  to  be  envied,  who  can 
exclaim  with  St.  Paul,  ^  The  loorld  is  crucified  unto  «ie,  and 
I  unto  the  world.  '  '  /  have  learned,  in  whatever  state   I  am, 
therewith  to  he  content.''  '  The  icorld  passeth  away  and  the  lust 
thereof ;  hut  he  that  doeth  the  will  of  God  abideth  for  ever."* 
There  is,  in  truth,  an  indescribable  satisfaction  in  the 
service  of  God ;  his  grace   imparts  such  composure  in 
time  of  trouble,  and  such  fortitude  in  the  anticipation  of 
it,  at  the  same  time  that  it  increases   our  pleasures  by 
making  them  innocent,  that  the  Christian,  viewed  either 
as  militant  in  this  troublesome  scene,  or  as  a  traveller 


284  COMPLETE    WORKS 

who  is  hastening,  by  a  difficult,  but  short  journey,  to  a 
better  country,  is  a  most  enviable  and  happy  character. 
The  man  who  lives  without  God  in  the  world,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  neither  rest  here,  nor  certainty  or  hope 
for  the  future.  His  reflections  must,  at  all  times,  be 
dubious  and  dark,  not  to  say  distressing ;  and  his  most 
exquisite  enjoyments  must  have  a  sting  of  fear  and  ap- 
prehension in  them,  which  is  felt  when  the  gay  hour  is 
over,  and  its  joys  no  more  remembered.  Many  wicked 
and  dissipated  men  sigh  in  secret  for  the  state  of  the 
righteous,  but  they  conceive  there  are  insuperable 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  religion,  and  that  they  must 
amend  their  lives  before  they  can  hope  for  acceptance, 
or  even  dare  to  seek  acceptance  with  God.  But  what  a 
miserable  delusion  is  this  !  If  this  were  truly  the  case, 
how  awful  would  be  the  condition  of  the  sinner  !  for  we 
know  that  our  hearts  are  so  depraved,  and  so  obstinate- 
ly addicted  to  sin,  that  they  cannot  forsake  it  without 
some  more  than  mortal  power  to  cut  asunder  the  bonds 
of  innate  corruption,  and  loosen  the  affections  from  this 
sinful  bondage.  I  was  talking  a  few  days  ago  with  a 
young  surgeon  who  is  just  returned  from  the  East-Indies, 
and  was  expostulating  with  him  on  his  dissolute  habits  : 
'  Sir,'  said  he,  '  I  know  you  are  happy,  and  I  woulu 
give  worlds  to  be  able  to  subdue  my  passions  ;  but  it  is 
impossible,  it  never  can  be  done  :  I  have  made  resolution 
upon  resolution,  and  the  only  effect  has  been  that  I  have 
plunged  the  deeper  into  vice  than  ever.'  What  could  be 
a  stronger  illustration  of  the  Scripture  truth.  That  man's 
heart  is  naturally  corrupt,  and  desperately  wicked  ? 
Since  wickedness  is  misery,  can  we  conceive  that  an  all- 
good  and  benevolent  God  would  have  originally  created 
man  with  such  a  disposition  ?  It  is  sin  which  hath  made 
the  world  a  vale  of  tears.  It  is  the  power  of  the  cross 
of  Jesus  Christ  alone  that  can  redeem  us  from  our  natu- 
ral depravity  : — Yes,  my  friend,  '  We  know  on  whom  we 
have  believed  ;  and  we  are  persuaded  that  he  is  able  to 
keep  that  which  we  have  committed  unto  him  against 
the  great  day.'  When  I  occasionally  reflect  on  the  his- 
tory of  the  times  when  the  great  Redeemer  appeared, 
behold  God  preparing  his  way  before  him,  uniting  all 
the  civilized  world  in  one  language,  (Greek,)  for  the 
speedier  disseminating  of  the  blessed  Gospel ;  and  then, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  285 

when  I  compare  his  precepts  with  those  of  the  most 
famous  of  ancient  sages,  and  meditate  on  his  life,  his 
manners,  his  sufferings,  and  cruel  death,  I  am  lost  in 
wonder,  love,  and  gratitude.  Such  a  host  of  evidence 
attended  him,  as  no  power  but  that  of  the  devil  could 
withstand.  His  doctrines,  compared  with  the  morality 
of  the  then  world,  seem  indeed  to  have  dropped  down 
from  heaven.  His  meekness,  his  divine  compassion  and 
pity  for,  and  forgiveness  of,  his  bitterest  enemies,  con- 
vinces me  that  he  was  indeed  the  Word ;  that  he  was 
what  he  professed  to  be,  God,  in  his  Son,  reconciling 
the  world  to  himself.  These  thoughts  open  my  eyes  to 
my  own  wretched  ingratitude  and  disregard  of  so  merci- 
ful and  compassionate  a  master  ;  under  such  impressions, 
I  could  ardently  long  to  be  separated  altogether  from 
the  affairs  of  this  Hfe,  and  live  alone  to  my  Redeemer. 
But,  alas  !  this  does  not  last  long — the  pleasing  outside 
of  the  delusive  world  entices  my  heart  away;  beauty 
smiles  me  into  a  disgust  of  religion,  and  the  fear  of  sin- 
gularity frowns  me  into  the  concealment  of  it.  How 
artfully  does  the  arch-deceiver  insinuate  himself  into 
our  hearts  !  He  tells  us,  that  there  is  a  deal  of  unneces- 
sary moroseness  in  religion,  a  deal  too  many  humiliat- 
ing  conditions  in  the  Gospel,  and  many  ignorant  absur- 
dities in  its  professors ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
polite  world  is  so  cheerful  and  pleasing,  so  full  of 
harmless  gayety  and  refined  elegance,  that  we  cannot 
but  love  it.  This  is  an  insidious  species  of  reasoning. 
Could  we  but  see  things  in  their  true  colors,  were  but 
the  false  varnish  off,  the  society  of  the  Gospel  would  seem 
an  assembly  of  angels,  and  that  of  the  world  a  congrega- 
tion of  devils  :  but  it  is  the  best  way  not  to  reason  with 
the  Tempter.  I  have  a  Talisman,  which  at  once  puts 
to  flight  all  his  arguments  ;  it  is  the  name  of  my  Saviour, 
and  against  that  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail.  That 
is  my  anchor  and  my  confidence  ;  I  can  go  with  that  to 
the  bed  of  death,  and  lift  up  the  eyes  of  the  dying  and 
despairing  wretch  to  the  great  Intercessor;  I  can  go 
with  this  into  the  society  of  the  cheerful,  and  come 
away  with  lightness  of  heart  and  entertainment  of  spirit. 
In  every  circumstance  of  life  I  can  join  with  Job,  who, 
above  fourteen  hundred  years  before  Jesus  Christ,  ex- 
claims, in  the  fervor  of  holy  anticipation,  '  I  know  that 


COMPLETE    WORKS 

my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  at  the 
latter  day  upon  the  earth  :  and  though  after  my  skin 
worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see 
God.' 

The  power  of  the  Gospel  was  never  more  strongly  il- 
lustrated than  in  the  late  mission  to  Greenland.  These 
poor  and  unlettered  tribes,  who  inhabit  nearly  the  ex- 
tremest  verge  of  animal  existence,  heard  the  discourses 
of  the  Danish  missionaries  on  the  being  of  a  God  with 
stupid  unconcern,  expressed  their  assent  to  everything 
that  was  proposed  to  them,  and  then  hoped  to  extort 
some  present  for  their  complacency.  For  ten  years  did 
a  very  learned  and  pious  man  labor  among  them  with- 
out the  conversion  of  a  single  soul.  He  thought  that  he 
must  prove  to  them  the  existence  of  a  God,  and  the 
original  stain  of  our  natures,  before  he  could  preach  the 
peculiar  doctrines  of  the  Gospel,  and  he  could  never  get 
over  this  first  step  ;  for  they  either  could  not  understand 
it,  or  would  not,  and  when  no  presents  were  to  be  had, 
turned  away  in  disgust.  At  length  he  saw  his  error, 
and  the  plan  of  operations  was  altered.  Jesus  Christ 
was  preached  in  simplicity,  without  any  preparation. 
The  Greenlanders  seemed  thoughtful,  amazed,  and  con- 
founded ;  their  eyes  were  opened  to  their  depraved  and 
lost  state.  The  Gospel  was  received  everywhere  with 
ardent  attention.  The  flame  spread  like  wildfire  over 
the  icy  wastes  of  Greenland  ;  numbers  came  from  the  re- 
motest recesses  of  the  Northern  Ocean  to  hear  the  word 
of  life  ;  and  the  greater  part  of  the  population  of  that 
extensive  country  has  in  time  been  baptized  in  the  name 
of  the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost. 

I  have  now  filled  my  sheet. — Pardon  my  prolixity,  and 
believe  me,  my  prayers  are  offered  up,  frequently,  for 
your  continuance  of  the  path  you  have  chosen.  For 
myself,  I  need  your  prayers — may  we  be  a  mutual  as- 
sistance to  each  other,  and  to  all  our  fellow  laborers  in 
the  Lord  Jesus. 

Believe  me  your  sincere  friend, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


OF  H.  K.  WHITE.  287 

TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 

Nottingham,  6th  July,  1805. 
DEAR  CIJARLESVVORTH, 

***** 

I  BEG  you  will  admire  the  elegance  of  texture  and 
shape  of  the  sheet  on  which  I  have  the  honor  to  write 
to  you,  and  beware  lest,  in  drawing  your  conclusions, 
you  conceive  that  I  am  turned  exciseman  ; — for  I  assure 
you  I  write  altogether  in  character  ; — a  poor  Cambridge 
scholar,  with  a  patrimony  of  a  few  old  books,  an  ink- 
horn,  and  some  sundry  quires  of  paper,  manufactured 
as  the  envelopes  of  pounds  of  tea,  but  converted  into 
repositories  of  learning  and  taste. 

The  classics  are  certainly  in  disrepute.  The  ladies 
have  no  more  reverence  for  Greek  and  Latin,  than  they 
have  for  an  old  peruke,  or  the  ruffles  of  Queen  Anne. 
I  verily  believe  that  they  would  hear  Homer's  Greek 
without  evidencing  one  mark  of  terror  and  awe,  even 
though  spouted  by  a  university  orator,  or  a  Westmin- 
ster Stentor.  0  tempora !  o  mores !  the  rural  elegance  of 
the  twanging  French  horn^  and  the  vile  squeak  of  the 
Italian  fiddle  are  more  preferred  than  all  the  energy,  and 
all  the  sublimity  of  all  the  Greek  and  Roman  orators, 
historians,  poets,  and  philosophers,  put  together.  Now, 
sir,  as  a  classic,  I  cannot  bear  to  have  the  honorable 
fame  of  the  ancients  thus  despised  and  contemned,  and 
therefore  I  have  a  controversy  with  all  the  beaux  and 
belles,  Frenchmen  and  Italians.  When  they  tell  me 
that  I  walk  by  rule  and  compass,  that  I  balance  my  body 
with  strict  regard  to  the  centre  of  gravity,  and  that  I 
have  more  Greek  in  my  pate  than  grace  in  my  limbs,  I 
can  bear  it  all  in  sullen  silence,  for  you  know  it  must  be 
a  libel,  since  I  am  no  mathematician,  and  therefore  can- 
not have  learned  to  walk  ill  by  system.  As  for  grace, 
I  do  believe,  since  I  read  Xenophon,  I  am  become  a  very 
elegant  man,  and  in  due  time  shall  be  able  to  spout 
Pindar,  dancing  in  due  gradation  the  advancing,  ret- 
rograde, and  medium  steps,  according  to  the  regular  pro- 
gress of  the  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode.  You  and 
I  will  be  very  fashionable  men,  after  the  manner  of  the 
Greeks  :  we  will  institute  an  orchestra  for  the  exercise  of 


288  COMPLETE     WORKS 

the  ars  saltandi^  and  will  recline  at  our  meals  on  the  legiti- 
mate Triclinium  of  the  ancients — only  banish,  all  modern 
beaux  and  belles,  to  whom  I  am  a  professed  and  declared 
enemy. 

So  much  for  flippancy — 

Vale  !  S.  R.  V.  B.  E.  E.  Q.  V. 

H.  K.  WHITE 


TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 

Brigg,  near  Winteringham,  July,  1805. 
MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  HAVE  just  missed  you  at  Lincoln,  where  I  had  some 
expectations  of  seeing  you,  and  had  not  circumstances 
prevented,  I  had  certainly  waited  there  till  to-morrow 
morning  for  that  purpose.  This  letter,  which  I  wrote 
at  Brigg,  I  shall  convey  to  you  at  Kirton,  by  some  per- 
son going  to  the  session  ;  many  of  whom,  I  have  no 
doubt,  are  to  be  found  in  this  litigious  little  town. 

Your  mis-directed  epistle,  to  my  great  sorrow,  never 
reached  my  hands.  As  I  was  very  anxious  to  get  it,  I 
made  many  inquiries  at  the  post-offices  round  ;  but  they 
were  all  in  vain.  I  consider  this  as  a  real  loss,  and  I 
hope  you  will  regard  me  as  still  under  the  pressure  of 
vexation,  until  I  receive  some  substitute  from  your 
hands. 

Had  I  any  certain  expectation  of  hearing  you  address 
the  Court  or  Jury  sworn  at  Kirton,  no  circumstances  should 
prevent  me  from  being  present ;  so  do  I  long  to  mark  the 
dawnings  of  that  eloquence  which  will  one  day  ring 
through  every  court  in  the  Midland  Circuit.  I  think  the 
noise  of  *  *  *,  the  overbearing  petulance  of  *  *  *,  and 
the  decent  assurance  of  *  *  *,  will  readily  yield  to  that 
pure,  chaste,  and  manly  eloquence,  which,  I  have  na 
doubt,  you  chiefly  cultivate.  It  seems  to  me,  who  am 
certainly  no  very  competent  judge,  that  there  is  a  uniform 
mode^  or  art^  of  pleading  in  our  courts,  which  is  in  itself 
faulty,  and  is,  moreover,  a  bar  to  the  higher  excellences. 
You  know,  before  a  barrister  begins,  in  what  manner  he 
will  treat  the  subject ;  you  anticipate  his  positiveness,  his 
complete  confidence  in  the  stability  of  his  case,  his  con- 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  289 

tempt  of  his  opponent,  his  voluble  exaggeration,  and  the 
vehemence  of 'iiis  indignation.  All  these  are  as  of  course. 
It  is  no  matter  what  sort  of  a  face  the  business  assume  : 
if  Mr. be  all  impetuosity,  astonishment,  and  indig- 
nation on  one  side,  we  know  he  would  not  have  been  a 
whit  less  impetuous,  less  astonished,  or  less  indignant, 
on  the  other,  had  he  happened  to  have  been  retained. 
It  is  true,  this  assurance  of  success,  this  contempt  of  an 
opponent,  and  dictatorial  decision  in  speaking,  are  calcu- 
lated to  have  effect  on  the  minds  of  a  jury  ;  and  if  it  be 
the  business  of  a  counsel  to  obtain  his  ends  by  any  means, 
he  is  right  to  adopt  them  ;  but  the  misfortune  is,  that  all 
these  things  are  mechanical,  and  as  much  in  the  power 
of  the  opposite  counsel  as  in  your  own  ;  so  that  it  is  not 
so  much  who  argues  best,  as  who  speaks  last,  loudest, 
or  longest.  True  eloquence,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
confident  only  where  there  is  real  ground  for  confidence, 
trusts  more  to  reason  and  facts  than  to  imposing  decla- 
mation, and  seeks  rather  to  convince  than  dazzle.  The 
obstreperous  rant  of  a  pleader  may,  for  a  while,  intimi- 
date a  jury  ;  but  plain  and  manly  argument,  delivered  in 
a  candid  and  ingenuous  manner,  will  more  effectually 
work  upon  their  understandings,  and  will  make  an  im- 
pression on  which  the  froth  of  declamation  will  be  lost. 
I  think  a  man  who  would  plead  in  this  manner,  would 
gain  the  confidence  of  a  jury,  and  would  find  the  avenues 
of  their  hearts  much  more  open,  than  a  man  of  more  as- 
surance, who,  by  too  much  confidence  where  there  is 
much  doubt,  and  too  much  vehemence  where  there  is 
greater  need  of  coolness,  puts  his  hearers  continually  in 
mind  that  he  is  pleading  for  hire.  There  seems  to  me 
so  much  beauty  in  truth,  that  I  could  wish  our  barristers 
would  make  a  distinction  between  cases,  in  their  opinion 
Avell  or  ill-founded,  embarking  their  whole  heart  and 
soul  in  the  one,  and  contenting  themselves  with  a  per 
spicuous  and  forcible  statement  of  their  client's  case  in 
the  other. 

Pardon  my  rambling.  The  cacoethes  scribendi  can  only 
be  used  by  indulgence,  and  we  have  all  a  propensity  to 
talk  about  things  we  do  not  understand. 


25 


290  COMPLETE    WORKS 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringham,  August  20th,  1805. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


I  AM  very  sensible  of  all  your  affection,  in  your  anxie- 
ty that  I  should  not  diminish  my  books  ;  but  I  am  by  no 
means  relieved  from  the  anxiety  which,  on  more  ac- 
counts than  one,  I  am  under,  as  to  my  present  situation, 
so  great  a  burden  to  the  family,  when  I  ought  to  be  a 
support.  My  father  made  some  heavy  complaints  when 
I  was  at  home  ;  and  though  I  am  induced  to  believe  that 
he  is  enough  harassed  to  render  it  very  excusable,  yet  I 
cannot  but  feel  strongly  the  peculiarity  of  my  situation  ; 
and,  at  my  age,  feel  ashamed  that  I  should  add  to  his 
burdens.  At  present  I  have  my  hands  completely  tied 
behind  me.  When  I  get  to  college,  I  hope  to  have  more 
opportunities  of  advantage,  and,  if  I  am  fortunate,  I  shall 
probably  relieve  my  father  and  mother  from  the  weight 
which  I  now  lay  upon  them.  I  wish  you,  if  you  read 
this  letter  to  my  mother,  to  omit  this  part. 


TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

Winteringham,  Sept.  lOtb,  1805. 
DEAR  SIR, 

Your  letter  has  at  length  reached  me  at  this  place, 
where  I  have  been  for  the  last  ten  months  employed  in 
classical  reading  with  Mr.  Grainger.  It  gives  me  plea- 
sure to  hear  of  you,  and  of  poetry  :  for,  since  I  came 
here,  I  have  not  only  been  utterly  shut  out  from  all  in- 
tercourse with  the  lettered  world,  but  have  totally  laid 
aside  the  pen  of  inspiration.  I  have  been  actuated  to 
this  by  a  sense  of  duty  ;  for  I  wish  to  prove  that  I  have 
not  coveted  the  ministerial  office  through  the  desire  of 
learned  leisure,  but  with  an  ardent  wish  to  do  my  duty 
as  a  teacher  of  the  truth.  I  should  blush  to  present 
myself  as  a  candidate  for  that  office  in  an  unqualified 
and  unprepared  state ;  and  as  I  have  placed  my  idea 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  291 

of  the  necessary  qualifications  very  high,  all  the  time 
between  now  and  my  taking  my  degree  will  be  little 
enough  for  these  purposes  alone.  I  often,  however,  cast 
a  look  of  fond  regret  to  the  darling  occupations  of  my 
younger  hours,  and  the  tears  rush  into  my  eyes,  as  I 
fancy  I  see  the  few  wild  flowers  of  poetic  genius,  with 
which  I  have  been  blessed,  withering  with  neglect. 
Poetry  has  been  to  me  something  more  than  amuse- 
ment ;  it  has  been  a  cheerful  companion  when  I  have 
had  no  other  to  fly  to,  and  a  delightful  solace  when  con- 
solation has  been  in  some  measure  needful.  I  cannot, 
therefore,  discard  so  old  and  faithful  a  friend  without 
deep  regret,  especially  when  I  reflect  that,  stung  by  my 
ingratitude,  he  may  desert  me  forever  ! 
***** 

With  regard  to  your  intended  publication,  you  do  me 
too  much  honor  by  inserting  my  puerilities  along  with 
such  good  company  as  I  know  I  shall  meet  there.  I 
wish  I  could  present  you  with  some  sonnets  worthy  of 
your  work.  I  have  looked  back  amongst  my  old  papers, 
and  find  a  few  verses  under  that  name,  which  were 
written  between  the  time  when  'Clifton  Grove'  was 
sent  to  the  press,  and  its  final  appearance.  The  look- 
ing over  these  papers  has  recalled  a  little  of  my  old 
warmth,  and  I  have  scribbled  some  lines,  which,  as  they 
owe  their  rise  to  your  letter,  I  may  fairly  (if  I  have 
room)  present  you.  I  cannot  read  the  sonnets  which  I 
have  found  amongst  my  papers  with  pleasure,  and  there- 
fore I  shall  not  presume  to  show  them  to  you.  I  shall 
anxiously  expect  the  publication  of  your  work. 

I  shall  be  in  Cambridge  next  month,  being  admitted  a 
Sizer  at  St.  John's.  Trinity  would  have  suited  my 
plans  better,  but  the  expenses  of  that  college  are  greater. 

With  thanks  for  your  kind  remembrance  of  me,  I 
remain,  dear  sir,  very  respectfully  and  thankfully  yours, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

Yes,  my  stray  steps  have  wander'd,  wander'd  far 
From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy  ! 
And  many  a  flower,  whkli  in  the  passing  time 
My  heart  hath  regis-ter'd,  nipp'd  by  the  chill 
Of  undeserved  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died. 
Heart-soothing  Poesy  ! — Though  thou  hast 
To  hover  o'er  the  many-voiced  strings 
Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 


292  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Cull  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice-hallow'd  cell, 

And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 

Warm  my  reluctant  heart. — Yes,  I  would  throw, 

Once  more  would  tlirow,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 

O'er  tlie  responding  chords. — It  haih  not  ceased — 

It  cannot,  will  not  cease  ;  the  heavenly  warmth 

Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek; 

Still,  though  unbidden,  plays. — Fair  Poesy  ! 

The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain. 

Sunshine,  and  storm,  with  various  interchange, 

Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  month. 

Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retired. 

Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter'd. — Sorceress! 

I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds  ! — It  is  but  lift 

Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep-bespangled  vault, 

Wreath  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  arm, 

And  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme. 

And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work. 

Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice-chastened  fire. 

Or  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean  flood, 

Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot. 

Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 

Must  turn  away  from  the  high  minstrelsy 

Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 

Must  turn  away ;  there  ate  severer  strains, 

(And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 

The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 

Released  and  disembodied,)  there  are  strains. 

Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought. 

Through  the  probation  of  revolving  years. 

And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth. 

Have  purged  and  purified. — To  these  my  soul 

Aspireth ;  and  to  this  sublimer  end 

I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 

With  patient  expectation. — Yea,  sometimes 

Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me ;  and  gometimee 

Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait. 

And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 

Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low. 

Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bliss  complete. 

And  full  fruition  filling  all  the  soul. 

Surely  such  ministry,  though  rare,  may  soothe 

The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 

Of  toil ;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 

Reverts  to  day-dr6ams  of  the  summer  gone. 

When  by  clear  fountain,  or  embowered  bradco. 

I  lay  a  listless  muser,  prizing,  far 

Above  all  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme ; 

But  for  such  recollections  I  could  brace 

My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path 

Of  science  unregretting ;  eye  afar 

Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height, 

And  with  bold  step,  and  resolute  attempt. 

Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess. 

Where  throned  in  light  she  sits,  the  Queen  of  Truth.. 

These  verses  form  nearly  the  only  poetical  effort  of 
this  year,     Pardon  their  imperfections. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 


293 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  Oct.  ]8tb  1805. 
MY  DEAR  BEN, 

I  AM  at  length  finally  settled  in  my  rooms,  and,  accor- 
ding to  my  promise,  I  write  to  you  to  tell  you  so.  I  did 
not  feel  quite  comfortable  at  first  here  ;  but  I  now  begin 
to  feel  at  home,  and  relish  my  silent  and  thoughtful  cup 
of  tea  more  than  ever.  Amongst  our  various  occupations, 
that  of  attending  chapel  is  to  me  not  the  least  irksome, 
for  the  service  is  read  in  general  below  the  span  of  my 
auditory  nerve  ;  but  when  they  chant,  I  am  quite  charm- 
ed, for  our  organ  is  fine,  and  the  voices  are  good.  This 
is,  however,  only  on  high  days  and  festivals,  in  which 
number  the  present  day  is  to  be  reckoned  (St.  Luke's.) 

My  mathematical  studies  do  not  agree  with  me,  and 
you  may  satisfy  yourself  I  shall  never  be  a  senior  wrang- 
ler. Many  men  come  up  with  knowledge  enough  for  the 
highest  honors,  and  how  can  a  man  be  expected  to  keep 
up  with  them  who  starts  without  any  previous  fund.? 
Our  lectures  begin  on  Monday,  and  then  I  shall  know 
more  of  college  difficulties. 

My  rooms  are  in  the  top  story  of  the  farthest  court  of 
St.  John's  (which  you  perhaps  remember)  near  the  clois- 
ters. They  are  light,  and  tolerably  pleasant ;  though,  as 
there  was  no  furniture  in  them,  and  I  have  not  yet  bought 
many  necessary  articles,  they  look  very  bare.  Your  phiz 
over  the  chimney-piece  has  been  recognised  by  two  of  my 
fellow  students  ;  the  one  recollected  its  likeness  to  Mr. 
Maddock  of  Magdalene  ;  and  the  other  said  it  was  like  a 
young  man  whom  he  had  seen  with  Mr.  Maddock,  and 
whom  he  supposed  to  be  his  brother. 

Of  my  new  acquaintances,  I  have  become  intimate  with 
a  Mr.  *  *  *,  who,  I  hope,  will  be  senior  wrangler.  He 
is  a  very  serious  and  friendly  man,  and  a  man  of  no  com- 
mon mathematical  talents.  He  lives  in  the  same  court 
with  me.  Besides  him,  I  know  of  none  whose  friendship 
I  should  value  ;  and  including  him,  no  one  whose  hand  I 
would  take  in  preference  to  that  of  my  old  friend,  so  long 
as  I  see  my  old  friend  with  his  old  face.  When  you  have 
learned  to  be  other  than  what  you  are,  I  shall  not  regret 
'25* 


294  COMPLETE    WORKS 

that  B.  M.  is  no  longer  my  friend,  but  tnat  my  former 
friend  is  now  no  more. 


I  walked  through  Magdalene  the  other  day,  and  I 
could  not  help  anticipating  the  time  when  I  should  come 
to  drink  your  tea,  and  swallow  your  bread  and  butter, 
within  the  sacred  walls.  You  must  know  our  college  was 
originally  a  convent  for  Black  Friars  ;  and  if  a  man  of 
the  reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth  were  to  peep  out  of  his 
grave,  in  the  adjoining  church-yard,  and  look  into  our 
portals,  judging  by  our  dress  and  appearance,  he  might 
deem  us  a  convent  of  Black  Friars  still.  Some  of  our 
brethren,  it  is  true,  would  seem  of  very  unsightly  bulk ; 
but  many  of  them,  with  eyes  sunk  into  their  heads,  from 
poring  over  the  mathematics,  might  pass  very  well  for 
the  fasting  and  mortified  shadows  of  penitent  monks. 

With  regard  to  the  expenses  of  our  college,  I  can  now 
speak  decisively  ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  that  1  shall  be  here 
an  independent  man.  I  am  a  Senior  Sizer,  under  very 
favorable  circumstances,  and,  I  believe,  the  profits  of  my 
situation  will  nearly  equal  the  actual  expenses  of  the 
college.  But  this  is  no  rule  for  other  colleges.  I  am 
on  the  best  side  (there  are  two  divisions)  of  St.  John's, 
and  the  expenses  here  are  less  than  anywhere  else  in 
the  university. 

I  have  this  week  written  some  very  elaborate  verses 
for  a  college  prize,  and  I  have  at  length  learned  that  I 
am  not  qualified  for  a  competitor,  not  being  a  Lady  Mar- 
garet's scholar  :  so  that  I  have  lost  my  labor. — Compar- 
ed with  the  other  men  of  this  large  college,  I  find  I  am 
a  respectable  classic,  and  if  I  had  time  to  give  to  the 
languages,  I  think  I  should  ultimately  succeed  in  them 
in  no  small  degree  ;  but  the  fates  forbid  ;  mathematics  I 
must  read,  and  in  mathematics  I  know  I  never  shall  ex- 
cel. These  are  harassing  reflections  for  a  poor  young 
man  gaping  for  a  fellowship  ! 

If  I  chose  I  could  find  a  good  deal  of  religious  society 
here,  but  I  must  not  indulge  myself  with  it  too  much. 
Mr.  Simeon's  preaching  strikes  me  much. 
***** 

I  beg  you  will  answer  a  thousand  such  questions  as 
these  without  my  asking  them. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  295 

This  is  a  letter  of  intelligence  : — next  shall  be  senti- 
ment, (or  Gothic  arch,  for  they  are  synonymous  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  M.) 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  October  26th,  1805. 


DEAR  MOTHER, 


You  seem  to  repose  so  little  confidence  in  what  I  say 
with  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  that  I  am  not  en- 
couraged to  hope  you  w^ill  give  me  much  credit  for  what 
I  am  about  to  say,  namely,  that  had  I  no  money  at  all, 
either  from  my  friends  or  Mr.  Simeon,  I  could  manage 
to  live  here.  My  situation  is  so  very  favorable,  and  the 
necessary  expenses  so  very  few,  that  I  shall  want  very 
little  more  than  will  suffice  for  clothes  and  books.v  I 
have  got  the  bills  of  Mr.  *  *,  a  Sizer  of  this  college,  now 
before  me,  and  from  them,  and  his  own  account,  I  will 
give  you  a  statement  of  what  my  college  bills  will 
amount  to. 

***** 

Thus  my  college  expenses  will  not  be  more  than  12/. 
or  15Z.  a  year  at  the  most.  I  shall  not  have  any  occa- 
sion for  the  whole  sum  I  have  a  claim  upon  Mr.  Simeon 
for ;  and  if  things  go  well,  I  shall  be  able  to  live  without 
being  dependent  on  any  one.  The  Mr.  *  *,  whose  bills  I 
have  borrowed,  has  been  at  college  three  years.  He 
came  over  from  *  *,  with  101.  in  his  pocket,  and  has  no 
friends,  or  any  income  or  emolument  whatever,  except 
what  he  receives  for  his  Sizership  ;  yet  he  does  support 
himself,  and  that,  too,  very  genteelly.  It  is  only  men's 
extravagance  that  makes  college  life  so  expensive.  There 
are  Sizers  at  St.  John's  who  spend  150Z.  a-year :  but 
they  are  gay,  dissipated  men,  who  choose  to  be  Sizers 
in  order  that  they  may  have  more  money  to  lavish  on 
their  pleasures.  Our  dinners  and  suppers  cost  us  noth- 
ing ;  and  if  a  man  choose  to  eat  milk-breakfasts,  and  go 
without  tea,  he  may  live  absolutely  for  nothing  ;  for  his 
college  emoluments  will  cover  the  rest  of  his  expenses. 
Tea  is  indeed  almost  superfluous,  since  we  do  not  rise 


296  COMPLETE    WORKS 

from  dinner  till  half  past  three,  and  the  supper  bell  rings 
a  quarter  before  nine.  Our  mode  of  living  is  not  to  be 
complained  of,  for  the  table  is  covered  with  all  possible 
variety  ;  and  on  feast-days,  which  our  fellows  take  care 
are  pretty  frequent,  we  have  wine. 

You  will  now,  I  trust,  feel  satisfied  on  this  subject, 
and  will  no  longer  give  yourself  unnecessary  uneasiness 
on  my  account. 

***** 

I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  be  put  into  unfurnished 
rooms,  so  that  my  furniture  will  cost  me  a  little  more 
than  I  expected;  I  suppose  about  151.,  or  perhaps  not 
quite  so  much.  I  sleep  on  a  hair  mattrass,  which  I  find 
just  as  comfortable  as  a  bed  ;  it  only  cost  me  41.,  along 
with  blankets,  counterpane,  and  pillows,  &c.  I  have 
three  rooms — a  sitting-room,  a  bed-room,  and  a  kind  of 
scullery  or  pantry.  My  sitting-room  is  very  light  and 
pleasant,  and  what  does  not  often  happen,  the  walls  are 
in  good  case,  having  been  lately  stained  green. 

I  must  commission  my  sister  to  make  me  a  pair  of 
letter  racks,  but  they  must  not  be  fine,  because  my 
furniture  is  not  very  fine.  I  think  the  old  shape  (or 
octagons,  one  upon  another)  is  the  neatest,  and  white 
the  best  color.  I  wish  Maria  would  paint  vignettes  in 
the  squares,  because  then  I  should  see  how  her  draw- 
ing proceeds.  You  must  know  that  these  are  not  intend- 
ed as  mere  matters  of  show,  but  are  intended  to  answer 
some  purpose  ;  there  are  so  many  particular  places,  to 
attend  on  particular  days,  that  unless  a  man  is  very 
cautious,  he  has  nothing  else  to  do  than  to  pay  forfeits 
for  non-attendance.  A  few  cards,  and  a  little  rack,  will 
be  a  short  way  of  helping  the  memory. 

I  think  I  must  get  a  supply  of  sugar  from  London  ;  for 
if  I  buy  it  here,  it  will  cost  me  Is.  6d.  per  pound,  which 
is  rather  too  much.     I  have  got  tea  enough  to  last  the 

term  out. 

***** 

Although  you  may  be  quite  easy  on  the  subject  of  my 
future  support,  yet  you  must  not  form  splendid  ideas  of 
my  success  at  the  university,  for  the  lecturers  all  speak 
so  low,  and  we  sit  at  such  a  distance,  that  I  cannot  hear 
a  syllable.  I  have,  therefore,  no  more  advantage  than 
if  I  were  studying  at  home. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  297 

I  beg  we  may  have  no  more  doubts  and  fears,  at  least 
on  my  score.  I  think  I  am  now  very  near  being  oft* 
your  hands  ;  and,  since  my  education  at  the  university 
is  quite  secure,  you  need  not  entertain  gloomy  appre- 
hensions for  the  future  ;  my  maintenance  will,  at  all 
events,  be  decent  and  respectable  :  and  you  must  not 
grieve  yourself  because  I  cannot  be  as  rich  as  an  alder- 
man. 

***** 

Do  not  show  this  letter  to  all  comers,  nor  leave  it  about, 
for  people  will  have  a  very  mean  idea  of  university  edu- 
cation, when  they  find  it  costs  so  little  ;  but  if  they  are 
saucy  on  the  subject,  tell  them — I  have  a  lord  just  un- 
der me. 


TO  THE.  REV.  JOHN  DASHWOOD. 

St.  John's,  Oct.  26th,  1805. 
DEAR  SIR, 

It  is  now  many  months  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and 
I  have  not  received  any  answer.  I  should  not  have 
troubled  you  with  this  letter,  but  that,  considering  how 
much  I  owe  to  you,  I  thought  the  rules  and  observances 
of  strict  etiquette  might  with  moral  propriety  be  dispen- 
sed with. 

Suffer  me  therefore  to  tell  you,  that  I  am  quietly  and 
comfortably  settled  at  St.  John's,  silently  conforming  my- 
self to  the  habits  of  college  life,  and  pursuing  my  studies 
with  such  moderation  as  I  think  necessary  for  my  health. 
I  feel  very  much  at  home,  and  tolerably  happy  ;  although 
the  peculiar  advantages  of  university  education  will  in 
a  great  measure  be  lost  to  me,  since  there  is  not  one  of 
the  lecturers  whom  I  am  able  to  hear. 

My  literary  ambition  is,  I  think,  now  fast  subsiding, 
and  a  better  emulation  springing  up  in  its  room.  I  con- 
ceive that,  considering  the  disadvantages  under  which  I 
labor,  very  little  can  be  expected  from  me  in  the  Senate 
House.  I  shall  not,  however,  remit  my  exertions,  but 
shall  at  least  strive  to  acquit  myself  with  credit,  though 
I  cannot  hope  for  the  more  splendid  honors. 


298  COMPLETE    WORKS 

With  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure to  inform  you,  that  my  situation  is  so  favorable,  that 
I  shall  be  obliged,  in  strict  rectitude,  to  wave  the  offers 
of  many  of  my  friends.  I  shall  not  even  need  the  sum 
Mr.  Simeon  mentioned,  after  the  first  year ;  and  it  is  not 
impossible  that  I  may  be  able  to  live  without  any  assist- 
ance at  all.  I  confess  I  feel  pleasure  in  the  thought  of 
this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of  independence,  but 
because  I  shall  then  give  a  more  unbiassed  testimony  to 
the  Truth,  than  if  I  were  supposed  to  be  bound  to  it  by 
any  ties  of  obligation  or  gratitude.  I  shall  always  feel 
as  much  indebted  for  intended,  as  for  actually  afforded 
assistance  ;  and  though  I  should  never  think  a  sense  of 
thankfulness  an  oppressive  burden,  yet  I  shall  be  happy 
to  evince  it,  when,  in  the  eyes  of  the  icorld,  the  obligation 
to  it  has  been  discharged. 

***** 

I  hope  you  will  ere  long  relieve  me  from  the  painful 
thought  that  I  lie  under  your  displeasure  ;  and  believe 
me,  dear  sir,  most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  MR.  CHARLESWORTH. 


Cum  diutius  a  te  frustra  litteras  expectassem  memet, 
in  aninmm  tuum  revocare  aut  iterum  otio  obtrudere  no- 
lebam. 

Penes  te  erat  aut  nobiscum  denuo  per  litter-as  colloqui 
aut  familiaritatem  et  necessitatem  nostram  silentio  dim- 
ittere.  Hoc  te  prastulisse  jam  diu  putaveram,  cum  epis- 
tola  tua  mihi  in  manus  venit. 

***** 

Has  litteras  scribebam  intra  sanctos  Sanctissimi  Johan- 
nis  Collegii  muros,  in  celeberrima  hao  nostra  academia 
Cantab  rigise. 

Hie  tranquillitate  denique  litterarum  propria,  summa 
cum  volnptate  conjuncta  fruor.  Hie  omnes  discendi 
vias,  omnes  scientiae  rationes  indago  et  perseqnor  :  nes- 
cio  quid  tandem  evasurus.  Certe  si  parum  proficio,  mi- 
hi culpse  jure  datum  erit ;  modo  valetudo  me  sinat. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  299 

Haud  tamen  vereor,  si  verum  dicere  cogor,  ut  satis 
proficiam  :  quanqiiam  infirmis  auribus  aliorum  lecturas 
vix  unquam  audire  queam.  In  Mathematicis  parum 
adhuc  profeci :  iitpote  qui  perarduum  certamen  cum 
eruditissimis  quibusque  in  veterum  Unguis  et  moribus 
versatis  jamjam  sim  initurus. 

His  in  studiis  pro  mea  perbrevi  sane  et  tanquam  hes- 
terna  consuetudine  haud  mediocriter  sum  versatus. 

Latine  minus  eleganter  scribere  videor  quam  Greece  : 
neque  vero  eadem  voluptate  scriptores  Latinos  lectito 
quam  Grsecos  :  cum  ante m  omnem  industrise  mese  vim 
Romanis  litteris  contulerim,  haud  dubito  quin  faciles 
mihi  et  propitias  eas  faciam. 

Te  etiam  revocatum  velim  ad  hsec  elegantia  delicias- 
que  litterarum.  Quid  enim  accommodatius  videri  potest 
aut  a&  animum  quotidianis  curis  laboribusque  oppressum 
reficiendum  et  recreandum,  aut  ad  mentem  et  facultates 
ingenii  acuendas,  quam  exquisita  et  expoUta  summaque 
vi  et  acumine  ingenii  elaborata  veterum  scriptorum 
opera  ? 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  JAMES. 

St.  John's,  Nov.  180^, 
MY  DEAR    JAMES, 

You  do  not  know  how  anxious  I  am  to  hear  how  you 
go  on  in  all  things  ;  and  whether  you  still  persist  in 
steadfastness  and  seriousness.  I  know,  my  dear  lad^ 
that  your  heart  is  too  good  to  run  into  actual  vice,  yet  I 
fear  the  example  of  gay  and  wicked  persons  may  lead 
you  to  think  lightly  of  religion,  and  then  who  knows 
where  it  may  end  ?  Neville,  however,  will  always  be 
your  director,  and  I  trust  you  conceal  none,  even  of 
your  very  thoughts,  from  him.  Continue,  James,  to 
solicit  the  fatherly  superintendence  of  your  Maker,  night 
and  morning.  I  shall  not  fear  for  you,  while  I  am  as- 
sured you  do  this  fervently,  and  not  in  a  hurried  or 
slovenly  manner.  With  constant  prayer,  we  have  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  the  temptations  of  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil :  God  will  brin^^  us  through  it,  and  will 


300  COMPLETE    WORKS 

save  us  in  the  midst  of  peril.  If  we  consider  the  com- 
mon condition  of  man^s  life,  and  the  evils  and  misfor- 
tunes to  which  we  are  daily  exposed,  we  have  need  to 
bless  God  every  moment  for  sparing  us,  and  to  beg  of 
him,  that  when  the  day  of  misfortune  comes,  (ano 
come  it  must,  sooner  or  later,  to  all,)  we  may  be  pre- 
pared with  christian  fortitude  to  endure  the  shock. 
What  a  treasure  does  the  religious  man  possess  in  this, 
that  when  everything  else  fails,  he  has  God  for  his 
refuge  ;  and  can  look  to  a  world  where  he  is  sure,  through 
Chrjst  Jesus,  that  he  will  not  be  disappointed  ! 

I  do  not  much  heed  to  what  place  of  worship  you  may 
go,  so  as  you  are  but  a  serious  and  regular  attendant. 
Permit  me,  however,  to  explain  the  true  nature  of  the 
question  with  regard  to  the  church  liturgy,  in  ordej  that 
you  may  be  the  better  able  to  judge. 

You  know  from  the  epistles  of  St.  Paul,  that  soon  after 
the  death  of  Jesus  Christ,  there  were  regular  churches 
established  in  various  places,  as  at  Corinth,  Galatia, 
Thessalonica,  &c.,  &c.  Now,  we  are  not  certain  that 
they  used  forms  of  prayer  at  all  in  these  churches,  much 
more  that  any  part  of  ours  was  used  in  their  time  ;  but 
it  is  certain,  that  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  286  there  was 
a  general  liturgy  in  use  throughout  all  the  churches  of 
Christ.  Now,  if  in  that  early  time,  when  Christians 
were  much  more  like  the  apostles  than  they  are  now, 
they  used  a  form  of  prayer  in  the  churches,  it  is  fair  to 
conclude  that  the  practice  was  not  unscriptural ;  besides, 
at  this  very  time,  St.  John  the  Evangelist  had  not  been 
dead  above  100  years,  and  one  of  his  disciples,  though  at 
a  very  great  age,  was  actually  living.  St.  Chrysostom,^ 
who  lived  above  354  years  after  Christ,  wrote  some  of 
our  prayers,  and  the  greater  part  of  them  have  been  in 
general  use  for  a  thousand  years.  About  the  year  286, 
about  one  thousand  five  hundred  years  ago,  immense 
multitudes  of  savages,  the  Goths  and  Vandals,  being 
enticed,  by  the  fertility  of  the  Italian  country,  and  the 
riches  of  its  possessors,  came  down  from  Germany, 
Hungary,  and  all  the  northern  parts  of  Europe,  upon 
the  Roman  empire,  then  enfeebled  with  luxury,  and 
endeavoured  to  gain  possession  of  the  south.  They 
were  at  first  repulsed  ;  but  as  fast  as  they  were  defeated 
or  slain,  new  hordes,  allured  by  the  accounts  which 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  301 

their  countrymen  gave  of  its  opulence  and  abundance, 
succeeded  in  their  stead,  till  the  forces  of  the  Romans 
grew  unequal  to  the  contest,  and  gradually  gave  way  to 
the  invaders,  who,  wherever  they  came,  reduced  every- 
thing to  a  state  of  barbarism.  The  Christians,  about 
this  time,  were  beginning  to  prevail  in  the  Roman  terri- 
tories, and  under  the  emperor  Constantine,  who  was 
the  first  christian  king,  were  giving  the  blow  to  idolatry. 
But  the  savage  intolerance  of  the  invaders,  who  reduced 
the  conquered  to  abject  slavery,  burned  books  wherever 
they  found  them,  and  even  forbade  the  cultivation  of 
learning,  reduced  them  to  the  utmost  distress.  At  this 
tinie  they  wrote,  and  used  in  their  churches,  all  that 
part  of  the  Litany  which  begins  with  the  Lord's  prayer, 
and  ends  with  the  prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom.  Thus  you 
see  how  venerably  ancient  are  many  of  our  forms,  and 
how  little  they  merit  that  contempt  which  ignorant 
people  pour  upon  them.  Very  holy  men  (men  now,  we 
have  every  reason  to  believe,  in  heaven)  composed  them, 
and  they  have  been  used  from  age  to  age  ever  since,  in 
our  churches,  with  but  i^ew  alterations.  But  you  will 
say  they  were  used  by  the  Roman  Catholics,  who  are  a 
very  superstitious  and  bigoted  set  of  people.  This  is 
no  objection  at  all,  because  the  Roman  Catholics  were 
not  always  so  bad,  and  what  is  a  proof  of  this  is,  that 
there  once  was  no  other  religion  in  the  world ;  and  we 
cannot  think  that  church  very  wicked,  which  God 
chose,  once,  to  make  the  sole  guardian  of  his  truth. 
There  have  been  many  excellent  and  pious  men  among 
the  Roman  Catholics,  even  at  the  time  their  public  faith 
was  corrupted. 

You  may  have  heard  of  the  Reformation  ;  you  know  it 
was  brought  about  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  about  1536.  Now,  Calvin  is  the  founder  of  the 
sect  of  Independents,  such  as  those  who  meet  at  Castle- 
gate,  yet  he  had  a  hand  in  framing  the  liturgy,  which, 
with  alterations,  we  now  use,  and  he  selected  it  in  part 
from  the  Hturgy  of  the  Roman  Church  ;  because  they 
had  received  it  from  the  primitive  Christians,  who  were 
more  immediately  taught  by  the  apostles.  The  Refor- 
mation means  that  change  in  religion,  which  was  brought 
about,  as  said  before,  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  in  conse- 


302  COMPLETE    WORKS 

quence  of  the  abuses  and  errors  which  had  crept  into 
the  Romish  Church. 

You  may  possibly  think  the  responses,  or  answers  of 
the  clerk  and  people,  rather  ridiculous. — This  absurdity, 
however,  generally  consists  more  in  the  manner  than  in 
the  thing.  They  were  intended  to  be  pronounced  aloud 
by  the  people,  and  were  used  as  a  means  to  keep  their 
attention  awake,  and  show  their  sincerity.  At  the  time 
this  form  was  invented,  not  one  man  in  five  or  six  hun- 
dred could  read  ;  and  these  repetitions  answered  another 
purpose,  of  fixing  important  ejaculations  and  sentences  in 
their  minds.  In  these  days  the  same  necessity  does  not 
exist ;  but  we  still  retain  the  form  on  account  of  its  other 
advantages,  and  through  reverence  of  such  an  antiquity, 
as  almost  vouches  for  its  being  acceptable  to  God,  who 
has  permitted  it  to  be  used  by  the  wisest  and  best  of 
men  for  so  long  a  period. 

I  think  I  have  now  nearly  tired  you.  Pray  write  to 
me  soon,  and  believe  me,  my  dear  James,  your  very 
affectionate   brother, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  Nov.  10.  1805. 


MY  DEAR  BEN, 


The  reasons  why  I  said  mathematical  studies  did  not 
agree  with  me,  were  these — that  I  am  more  inclined  to 
classical  pursuits,  and  that,  considering  what  disadvan- 
tages I  lie  under  in  being  deaf,  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  excel 
in  them.  I  have  at  present  entirely  laid  them  aside,  as 
I  am  reading  for  the  university  scholarship,  which  will 
soon  be  vacant :  there  are  expected  to  be  13  or  14  can- 
didates, some  of  whom  are  of  great  note  from  Eton  ;  and 
I  have  as  much  expectation  of  gaining  it,  as  of  being 
elected  supreme  magus  over  the  mysteries  of  Mithra. 
The  scholarship  is  of  no  value  in  itself  adequate  to  the 
labor  of  reading  for  it,  but  it  is  the  greatest  classical  honor 
in  the  university,  and  is  a  pretty  sure  road  to  a  fellowship. 
My  classical  abilities  here  have  attracted  some  attention, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  303 

and  my  Latin  Themes,  in  particular,  have  drawn  forth 
inquiries  from  the  tutors  as  to  the  place  of  my  education. 
The  reason  why  I  have  determined  to  sit  for  the  scho- 
larship is  this,  that  to  have  simply  been  a  candidate  for 
it  establishes  a  man's  character,  as  many  of  the  first 
classics  in  the  university  have  failed  of  it. 
***** 

I  begin  now  to  feel  at  home  in  my  little  room,  and  I 
wish  you  were  here  to  see  how  snugly  I  sit  by  my  bla- 
zing fire  in  the  cold  evenings.  College  certainly  has 
charms,  though  I  have  a  few  things  rankling  at  my  heart 
which  will  not  let  me  be  quite  happy. —  Ora,  Ora^  pro  me. 

This  last  sentence  of  mine  is  of  a  very  curious  tenden- 
cy, to  be  sure  :  for  who  is  there  of  mortals  who  has  not 
something  rankling  at  his  heart,  which  will  not  let  him 
be  happy  ? 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  different  estimations  two 
men  make  of  one  another's  happiness.  Each  of  them 
surveys  the  external  appearances  of  the  other's  situation, 
and,  comparing  them  with  the  secret  disquieting  circum- 
stances of  his  own,  thinks  him  happier  ;  and  so  it  is  that 
all  the  world  over,  be  we  favored  as  we  may,  there  is 
always  something  which  others  have,  and  which  we  our- 
selves have  not,  necessary  to  the  conjpletion  of  our  fe- 
licity. I  think  therefore,  upon  the  whole,  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  positive  happiness  in  this  world  ;  and  a  man 
can  only  be  deemed  felicitous,  as  he  is  in  comparison  less 
affected  with  positive  evil.  It  is  our  business,  therefore, 
to  support  ourselves  under  existing  ills,  with  the  antici- 
pation of  future  blessings.  Life,  with  all  its  bitters,  is 
a  draught  soon  drunk  ;  and  though  we  have  many  chan- 
ges to  fear  on  this  side  the  grave,  beyond  it  we  know 
of  none. 

Your  life  and  mine  are  now  marked  out ;  and  our  call- 
ing is  of  such  a  nature,  that  it  ill  becomes  us  to  be  too 
much  affected  with  circumstances  of  an  external  nature. 
It  is  our  duty  to  bear  our  evils  with  dignified  silence. 
Considering  our  superior  consolations,  they  are  small  in 
comparison  with  those  of  others  ;  and  though  they  may 
cast  a  sadness  both  over  our  hearts  and  countenances, 
which  time  may  not  easily  remove,  yet  they  must  not 
interfere  with  our  active  duties,  nor  affect  our  conduct 


304  COMPLETE    WORKS 

towards  others,  except  by  opening  our  heart  with  warmer 
sympathy  to  their  woes,  their  wants,  and  miseries. 

As  you  have  begun  in  your  religious  path,  my  beloved 
friend,  persevere.  Let  your  love  to  the  Crucified  con- 
tinue as  pure  as  it  was  at  first,  while  your  zeal  is  more 
tempered,  and  your  piety  more  rational  and  mature.  I 
hope  yet  to  live  to  see  you  a  pious  and  respected  parish 
priest ;  as  for  me — I  hope  I  shall  do  my  duty  as  I  have 
strength  and  ability,  and  I  hope  I  shall  always  continue, 
what  I  now  profess  myself,  your  friend  and  Ijrother. 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  10th  Dec.  1805. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  AM  SO  truly  hurt  that  you  should  again  complain  of 
my  long  silence,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  sending  this 
by  the  post,  although  I  shall  send  you  a  parcel  to- 
morrow. The  reason  of  my  not  having  sent  you  the 
cravats  sooner,  is  the  difliculty  I  have  found  in  getting 
them  together,  since  part  were  in  the  hands  of  my  laun- 
dress, and  part  dirty.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will 
find  them  right,  as  my  linen  is  in  other  respects  deficient, 
and  I  have  a  cause  at  issue  with  my  washerwoman  on 
that  score.  This  place  is  literally  a  den  of  thieves  ;  my 
bed-maker,  whom  we  call  a  gyp,  from  a  Greek  word  sig- 
nifying a  vulture,  runs  away  with  everything  he  can  lay 
his  hands  on,  and  when  he  is  caught,  says  he  only  bor- 
rows them.  He  stole  a  sack  of  coals  a-week,  as  regular- 
ly as  the  week  came,  when  first  I  had  fires  ;  but  I  have 
stopped  the  run  of  this  business,  by  a  monstrous  large 
padlock,  which  is  hung  to  the  staple  of  the  bin.  His 
next  trick  was  to  bring  me  four  candles  for  a  pound  in- 
stead of  six  ;  and  this  trade  he  carried  on  for  some  time, 
until  I  accidentally  discovered  the  trick:  he  then  said  he 
*had  always  brought  me  right  until  that  time,  and  that 
then  he  had  brought  me  fives,  but  had  given  Mr.  H.  (a 
man  on  the  same  staircase)  one,  because  he  thought  he 
understood  I  had  borrowed  one  of  him  ;  on  inquiring  of 
Mr.  H.  he  had  not  given  him  one  according  to  his  pre- 


OF    H.    K.     VvHITE.  305 

tence  :  but  the  gentleman  was  not  caug-ht  yet,  for  he 
declared  he  had  lent  one  to  the  bed-maker  of  Lord  B.  in 
the  rooms  below.  His  neatest  trick  is  going  to  the  gro- 
cer every  now  and  then  for  articles  in  your  name,  which 
he  converts  to  his  own  use.  I  have  stopped  him  here 
too,  by  keeping  a  checkbook.  Tea,  sugar,  and  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  are  his  natural  perquisites,  and  I  verily 
believe  he  will  soon  be  filling  his  canister  out  of  mine  be- 
fore my  face.  There  is  no  redress  for  all  this  ;  for  if  you 
change,  you  are  no  better  off:  they  are  all  alike.  They 
know  you  regard  them  as  a  pack  of  thieves,  and  their 
only  concern  is  to  steal  so  dexterously  that  they  may  not 
be  confronted  with  direct  proof. 

***** 

Do  not  be  surprised  at  any  apparent  negligence  in  my 
letters  :  my  time  has  so  many  calls  for  it,  that  half  my 
duties  are  neglected.  Our  college  examination  comes 
on  next  Tuesday,  and  it  is  of  the  utmost  moment  that  1 
acquit  myself  well  there.  A  month  after  will  follow  the 
scholarship  examination.  My  time,  therefore,  af  pre- 
sent, will  scarcely  permit  the  performance  of  my  promise 
with  respect  to  the  historical  papers,  but  I  have  them  in 
mind,  and  I  am  much  bent  on  perfecting  them  in  a  man- 
ner superior  to  their  commencement. 

I  would  fain  write  to  my  brother  James,  who  must  by 
no  means  think  I  forget  him  ;  but  I  fear  I  shall  see  him 
before  I  write  to  him  on  the  accounts  above  stated. 
The  examination  for  the  scholarship  is  distinct  from 
that  of  our  college,  which  is  a  very  important  one  ;  and 
while  I  am  preparing  for  the  one,  I  necessarily  neglect 
the  other. 

I  wish  very  much  to  hear  from  you  on  religious  topics  ; 
and  remember,  that  although  my  leisure  at  present  will 
not  allow  me  to  write  to  you  all  I  wish,  yet  it  will  be 
the  highest  gratification  to  me  to  read  your  letters,  es- 
pecially when  they  relate  to  your  Christian  progress.  I 
beseech  you  not  to  relax,  as  you  value  your  peace  of 
mind,  and  the  repose  of  a  dying  bed.  I  wish  you  would 
take  in  the  Christian  Observer,  which  is  a  cheap  work, 
and  will  yield  you  much  profitable  amusement.  I  have 
it  here  for  nothing,  and  can  send  you  up  some  of  the 
numbers  if  you  like. 
v26* 


306  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Remember,  and  let  my  mother  know,  that  I  have  no 
chance  for  the  university  scholarship,  and  that  I  only 
sit  for  the  purpose  of  letting  the  university  know  that  I 
am  a  decent  proficient  in  the  languages. 

There  is  one  just  vacant  which  I  can  certainly  get,  but 
I  should  be  obliged  to  go  to  Peter-house  in  consequence, 
which  will  not  be  advisable, — but  I  must  make  inquiries 
about  it.  I  speak  with  certainty  on  this  subject,  because 
it  is  restricted  to  candidates  who  are  in  their  first  year, 
amongst  whom  I  should  probably  be  equal  to  any.  The 
others  are  ooen  to  bachelors. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  December  16th,  1805, 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

In  consequence  of  an  alteration  in  my  plans,  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  the  latter  end  of  this 
week,  and  I  wish  you  so  to  inform  my  aunt.  The  rea- 
son of  this  change  is  this,  that  I  have  over-read  myself, 
and  I  find  it  absolutely  necessary  to  take  some  relaxation, 
and  to  give  up  study  entirely,  for  a  short  time,  in  order 
that  I  may  go  on  better  hereafter. 

This  has  been  occasioned  by  our  college  lectures, 
which  I  had  driven  too  late,  on  account  of  my  being 
occupied  in  preparations  for  the  university  scholarship 
examination,  and  then  I  was  obliged  to  fag  so  hard  for 
the  college  lectures,  as  the  time  drew  on,  that  I  could 
take  no  exercise.  Thus  I  soon  knocked  myself  up,  and  I 
now  labor  under  a  great  general  relaxation,  and  much 
nervous  weakness. 

Change  of  air  and  place  will  speedily  remove  these 
symptoms,  and  I  shall  certainly  give  up  the  university 
scholarship  rather  than  injure  my  health. 

Do  not  mention  these  things  to  my  mother,  as  she 
will  make  it  a  cause  of  unnecessary  uneasiness. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  307 

TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  December  19th,  1805. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  WAS  sorry  to  receive  your  letter,  aesiring  me  to  defer 
my  journey ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  be  forced  to  tell  you  the 
reason  of  my  coming  to  town  sooner  than  you  wish  me. 
I  have  had  an  attack  of  my  old  nervous  complaint,  and 
my  spirits  have  been  so  wretchedly  shattered,  that  my 
surgeon  says  I  shall  never  be  well  till  I  have  removed 
somewhere,  where  I  can  have  society  and  amusement. 
It  is  a  very  distressing  thing  to  be  ill  in  college,  where 
you  have  no  attendance,  and  very  little  society.  Mr. 
Catton,  my  tutor,  has  prevailed  upon  me,  by  pressing 
wishes,  to  go  into  the  hall  to  be  examined  with  the  men 
of  my  year  : — I  have  gone  through  two  examinations, 
and  I  have  one  to  come  ;  after  that  is  over,  he  told  me  I 
had  better  go  to  my  friends  directly,  and  relieve  myself 
with  complete  relaxation  from  study.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, the  object  of  my  journey  to  London  will  be 
answered,  by  the  mere  residence  in  my  aunt's  family, 
and  by  a  cessation  from  reading.  While  I  am  here,  I 
am  wretched  ;  I  cannot  read,  the  slightest  application 
makes  me  faint ;  I  have  very  little  society,  and  that  is 
quite  a  force  upon  my  friends.  I  am  determined,  there- 
fore, to  leave  this  place  on  Saturday  morning,  and  you 
may  rest  satisfied  that  the  purpose  of  my  journey  will  be 
fully  accomplished  by  the  prattle  of  my  aunt's  little  ones, 
and  her  care.  I  am  not  an  invalid,  since  I  have  no  sick- 
ness or  ailment,  but  I  am  weak  and  low-spirited,  and 
unable  to  read.  The  last  is  the  greatest  calamity  I  can 
experience  of  a  worldly  nature.  My  mind  preys  upon  it- 
self. Had  it  not  been  for  Leesori,  of  Clare  Hall,  I  could 
not  have  gone  through  this  week.  I  have  been  exam- 
ined twice,  and  almost  without  looking  over  the  sub- 
jects, and  I  have  given  satisfaction  ;  but  I  am  obliged  to 
be  kept  up  by  strong  medicines  to  endure  this  exertion, 
which  is  very  great. 

I  am  happy,  however,  to  tell  you,  I  am  better  ;  and  Mr. 
Parish,  the  surgeon,  says,  a  few  days  will  reestablish 
me  when  I  get  into  another  scene,  and  into  society. 


308  COMPLETE  WORKS 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

London,  December  24th,  1805 


MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 


You  will,  no  doubt,  have  been  surprised  at  not  having 
heard  from  me  for  so  long  a  time,  and  you  will  be  no  less 
so  to  find  that  I  am  writing  this  at  my  aunt's  in  this  far- 
famed  city.  I  have  been  so  much  taken  up  with  our 
college  examinations  of  late,  that  I  could  not  find  time 
to  write  even  to  you,  and  I  am  now  come  to  town,  in 
order  to  give  myself  every  relaxation  and  amusement  I 
can  ;  for  I  had  read  so  much  at  Cambridge,  that  my 
health  was  rather  affected,  and  I  was  advised  to  give 
myself  the  respite  of  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  in  order  to 
recover  strength.  I  arrived  in  town  on  Saturday  night, 
and  should  have  written  yesterday,  in  order  to  remove 
any  uneasiness  you  might  feel  on  my  account,  but  there 
is  no  post  on  Sunday. 

I  have  now  to  communicate  some  agreeable  intelli- 
gence to  you.  Last  week  being  the  close  of  the  Mich- 
aelmas term,  and  our  college  examination,  our  tutor, 
who  is  a  very  great  man,  sent  for  me,  and  told  me  he 
was  sorry  to  hear  I  had  been  ill :  he  understood  I  was 
low-spirited,  and  wished  to  know  whether  I  frightened 
myself  about  college  expenses.  I  told  him,  that  they 
did  contribute  some  little  to  harass  me,  because  I  was 
as  yet  uncertain  what  the  bills  of  my  first  year  would 
amount  to.  His  answer  was  to  this  purpose  : — '  Mr. 
White,  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  yourself  on  this  sub- 
ject :  your  emoluments  will  be  very  great,  very  great 
indeed,  and  I  will  take  care  your  expenses  are  not  very 
burdensome. — Leave  that  to  me  !'  He  advised  me  to  go 
to  my  friends,  and  amuse  myself  with  a  total  cessation 
from  reading.  After  our  college  examination  (which 
lasted  six  days)  was  over,  he  sent  for  me  again,  and 
repeated  what  he  had  said  before  about  the  expenses 
of  the  college  ;  and  he  added,  that  if  I  went  on  as  I 
had  begun,  and  made  myself  a  good  scholar,  I  might 
rely  on  being  provided  for  by  the  college  ;  for  if  the  county 
should  be  full^  and  they  could  not  elect  me  a  fellow,  they 
would  recommend  me  to  another  college,  where  they 
would  be  glad  to  receive  a  clever  man  from  their  hands  ; 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  309 

or,  at  all  events,  they  could  always  get  a  young*  man  a 
situation  as  a  private  tutor  in  a  nobleman's  family  :  or 
could  put  him  in  some  handsome  way  of  preferment. 
'  We  make  it  a  rule  (he  said)  of  providing  for  a  clever 
man,  whose  fortune  is  small ;  and  you  may  therefore  rest 
assured,  Mr.  White,  that,  after  you  have  taken  your 
degree,  you  will  be  provided  with  a  genteel  competency 
by  the  college.''  lie  begged  I  would  be  under  no  appre- 
hensions on  these  accounts  :  he  shook  hands  with  me 
very  affectionately,  and  wished  me  a  speedy  recovery. 
These  attentions  from  a  man  like  the  tutor  of  St.  John's 
are  very  marked  ;  and  Mr.  Catton  is  well  knov/n  for  doing 
more  than  he  says.  I  am  sure,  after  these  assurances 
from  a  principal  of  so  respectable  a  society  as  St.  John's, 
I  have  nothing  more  to  fear  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  never 
repine  on  my  account  again  : — according  to  every  ap- 
pearance, my  lot  in  life  is  certain. 


^TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

London,  Xraas,  1805. 
MY  DEAR  BEN, 

You  would  have  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  long 
silence,  had  I  preferred  my  self-justification  to  your  ease. 
I  wrote  you  a  letter,  which  now  lies  in  my  drawer  at  St. 
John's,  but  in  such  a  weak  state  of  body,  and  in  so  de- 
sponding and  comfortless  a  tone  of  mind,  that  I  knew  it 
would  give  you  pain,  and  therefore  I  chose  not  to  send 
it.  I  have  indeed  been  ill  ;  but,  thanks  to  God,  I  am 
recovered.  My  nerves  were  miserably  shattered  by  over- 
application,  and  the  absence  of  all  that  could  amuse,  and 
the  presence  of  many  things  which  weighed  heavy  upon 
my  spirits.  When  I  found  myself  too  ill  to  read,  and  too 
desponding  to  endure  my  own  reflections,  I  discovered 
that  it  is  really  a  miserable  thing  to  be  destitute  of  the 
soothing  and  supporting  hand  when  nature  most  needs 
it.  I  wandered  up  and  down  from  one  man's  room  to 
another,  and  from  one  college  to  another,  imploring 
society,  a  little  conversation,  and  a  little  relief  of  the 
burden  which  pressed  upon  my  spirits  ;  and  I  am  sorry 


310  COMPLETE    WORKS 

to  say,  that  those  who,  when  I  was  cheerful  and  lively, 
sought  my  society  with  avidity,  now,  when  I  actually 
needed  conversation,  were  too  busy  to  grant  it.  Our 
college  examination  was  then  approaching,  and  I  per- 
ceived with  anguish  that  I  had  read  for  the  university 
scholarship,  until  I  had  barely  time  to  get  up  our  private 
subjects,  and  that  as  I  was  now  too  ill  to  read,  all  hope 
of  getting  through  the  examination  with  decent  respect- 
ability was  at  an  end.  This  was  an  additional  grief.  I 
went  to  our  tutor,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  told  him  I 
must  absent  myself  from  the  examination, — a  step  which 
would  have  precluded  me  from  a  station  amongst  the 
prize-men  until  the  second  year.  He  earnestly  entreat- 
ed me  to  run  the  risk.  My  surgeon  gave  me  strong 
stimulants  and  supporting  medicines  during  the  exami- 
nation week,  and  I  passed,  I  believe,  one  of  the  most 
respectable  examinations  amongst  them.  As  soon  as 
ever  it  was  over,  I  left  Cambridge,  by  the  advice  of  my 
surgeon  and  tutor,  and  I  feel  myself  now  pretty  strong. 
I  have  given  up  the  thought  of  sitting  for  the  university 
scholarship  in  consequence  of  my  illness,  as  the  course 
of  my  reading  was  effectually  broken.  In  this  place  I 
have  been  much  amused,  and  have  been  received  with 
an  attention  in  the  literary  circles  which  I  neither 
expected  nor  deserved.  But  this  does  not  affect  me  as 
it  once  would  have  done  :  my  views  are  widely  altered  ; 
and  I  hope  that  I  shall  in  time  learn  to  lay  my  whole 
heart  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  tell  you  of  about  my 
illness  ;  it  is,  that  I  have  found  in  a  young  man,  with 
whom  I  had  a  little  acquaintance,  that  kind  care  and  at- 
tention, which  I  looked  for  in  vain  from  those  who  pro- 
fessed themselves  my  nearest  friends.  At  a  time  when 
*  *  *  could  not  find  leisure  to  devote  a  single  eve- 
ning to  his  sick  friend,  even  when  he  earnestly  implored 
it,  William  Leeson  constantly,  and  even  against  my 
wishes,  devoted  every  evening  to  the  relieving  of  my  mel- 
ancholy, and  the  enlivening  of  my  solitary  hours.  With 
the  most  constant  and  affectionate  assiduity,  he  gave  me 
my  medicines,  administered  consolation  to  my  spirits, 
and  even  put  me  to  bed. 

♦  *  *  *  * 

«  «  «  *  « 


OF    H.    K.     WHITE.  311 

TO  MR.  P.  THOMPSON. 

London,  1st  January,  1806. 
SIR, 

I  OWE  it  both  to  my  feelings  and  my  duty,  that  I  should 
thank  you  for  the  kind  inquiries  you  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  make  concerning  me  and  my  affairs.  I 
have  just  learned  the  purport  of  a  letter  received  from 
you  by  Mr.  Robinson,  the  bookseller ;  and  it  is  a  pleas- 
ing task  to  me,  at  the  same  time  that  I  express  my  sense 
of  your  benevolent  concern  in  my  behalf,  to  give  you, 
myself,  the  information  you  require. 

The  little  volume  which,  considered  as  the  production 
of  a  very  young  man,  may  have  interested  you,  has  not 
had  a  very  great  sale,  although  it  may  have  had  as  much 
countenance  as  it  deserved.  The  last  report  I  received 
from  the  publishers,  was  450  sold.  So  far  it  has  answer- 
ed the  expectations  I  had  formed  from  it,  that  it  has  pro- 
cured me  the  acquaintance,  and,  perhaps,  I  may  say, 
the  friendship  of  men  equally  estimable  for  their  talents 
and  their  virtues.  Rewarded  by  their  countenance,  I 
am  by  no  means  dissatisfied  with  my  little  book ;  indeed 
I  think  its  merits  have,  on  the  whole,  rather  been  over- 
rated than  otherwise,  which  I  attribute  to  the  lenity  so 
readily  afforded  to  the  faults  of  youth,  and  to  the  promp- 
titude with  which  benevolent  minds  give  encouragement 
where  encouragement  seems  to  be  wanted. 

With  regard  to  my  personal  concerns,  I  have  succeed- 
ed in  placing  myself  at  Cambridge,  and  have  already 
kept  one  term.  My  college  is  St.  John's,  where,  in  the 
rank  of  Sizer,  I  shall  probably  be  enabled  to  live  almost 
independently  of  external  support :  but  should  I  need  that 
support,  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  draw  on  a  friend,  whose 
name  I  am  not  permitted  to  mention,  for  any  sum  not 
exceeding  30L  per  annum.  With  habits  of  frugality,  I 
shall  never  need  this  sum :  so  that  I  am  quite  at  ease 
with  respect  to  my  college  expenses,  and  am  at  full  leis- 
ure to  pursue  my  studies  with  a  free  and  vacant  mind. 

I  am  at  present  in  the  great  city,  where  I  have  come, 
in  consequence  of  a  little  injudicious  application,  a  suitor 
to  health,  variety,  and  amusement.  In  a  few  days  I 
shall  return  to  Cambridge,  where  (should  you  ever  pass 


312  COMPLETE     WORKS 

that  way)  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  that  I  reside  there 
three-fourths  of  the  year.  It  would,  indeed,  give  me 
pleasure  to  say  personally  how  much  I  am  obliged  by 
your  inquiries. 

I  hope  you  will  put  a  favorable  construction  both  on 
the  minuteness  and  the  length  of  this  letter,  and  permit 
me  to  subscribe  myself,  sir,  very  thankfully  and  obe- 
diently yours, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


TO  HIS  AUNT. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  Jan.  6tli.  180G. 


MY  DEAR  AUNT, 


I  AM  at  length  once  more  settled  in  my  rooms  at  Cam- 
bridge ;  but  I  am  grown  so  idle,  and  so  luxurious,  since 
I  have  been  under  your  hands,  that  I  cannot  read  with 
half  my  usual  diligence. 

I  hope  you  concluded  the  Christmas  holydays  on  Mon- 
day evening  with  the  customary  glee ;  and  I  hope  my 
uncle  was  well  enough  to  partake  of  your  merriment. 
You  must  now  begin  your  penitential  days,  after  so  much 
riot  and  feasting ;  and,  with  your  three  little  prattlers 
around  you,  I  am  sure  your  evenings  will  flow  pleasantly 
by  your  own  fire-side.  Visiting  and  gayety  are  very  well 
by  way  of  change  ;  but  there  is  no  enjoyment  so  lasting 
as  that  of  one's  own  family.  Elizabeth  will  soon  be 
old  enough  to  amuse  you  with  her  conversation  ;  and,  I 
trust,  you  will  take  every  opportunity  of  teaching  her 
to  put  the  right  value  on  things,  and  to  exercise  her  own 
good  sense.  It  is  amazing  how  soon  a  child  may  become 
a  real  comfort  to  its  mother,  and  how  much  even  young 
minds  will  form  habits  of  affection  towards  those  who 
treat  them  like  reasonable  beings,  capable  of  seeing  the 
right  and  the  wrong  of  themselves.  A  very  little  girl 
may  be  made  to  understand  that  there  are  some  things 
which  are  pleasant  and  amusing,  which  are  still  less 
worthy  of  attention  than  others  more  disagreeable  and 
painful.  Children  are,  in  general,  fond  of  little  orna- 
ments of  dress,  especially  females  ;  and  though  we  may 
allow  them  to  be  elevated  with  their  trifling  splendors, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  313 

yet  we  should  not  forget  to  remind  them,  that,  although 
people  may  admire  their  dress,  yet  they  will  admire 
them  much  more  for  their  good  sense,  sweetness  of 
temper,  and  generosity  of  disposition.  Children  are 
very  quick-sighted  to  discern  whether  you  approve  of 
them,  and  they  are  very  proud  of  your  approbation  when 
they  think  you  bestow  it :  we  should  therefore  be  care- 
ful how  we  praise  them,  and  for  what.  If  we  praise 
their  dress  it  should  be  slightly,  and  as  if  it  were  a  mat- 
ter of  very  small  importance  ;  but  we  should  never  let 
any  mark  of  consideration,  or  goodness  of  heart,  in  a 
child,  pass  by,  without  some  token  of  approbation.  Still 
we  must  never  praise  a  child  too  much,  nor  too  warmly, 
for  that  would  beget  vanity  :  and  when  praise  is  moder- 
ately yet  judiciously  bestowed,  a  child  values  it  more, 
because  it  feels  that  it  is  just.  I  don't  like  punishments. 
You  will  never  torture  a  child  into  duty  ;  but  a  sensible 
child  will  dread  the  frown  of  a  judicious  mother,  more 
than  all  the  rods,  dark  rooms,  and  scolding  school- 
mistresses in  the  universe.  We  should  teach  our  child- 
ren to  make  friends  of  us,  to  communicate  all  their 
thoughts  to  us  ;  and  while  their  innocent  prattle  will 
amuse  us,  we  shall  find  many  opportunities  of  teaching 
them  important  truths,  almost  without  knowing  it. 

I  admire  all  your  little  ones,  and  I  hope  to  see  Eliz- 
abeth one  day  an  accomplished  and  sensible  girl.  Give 
my  love  to  them,  and  tell  them  not  to  forget  their  cousin 
Henry,  who  wants  a  housekeeper  at  college  ! 

Though  I  have  written  so  long  a  letter,  I  am,  indeed, 
offended  with  you,  and  I  dare  say  you  know  the  reason 
very  well. 


P.  S.    Whenever  you  are  disposed  to  write  a  letter, 
think  of  me. 


27 


314  COMPLETE    WORKS 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  February  17th,  1806. 


DEAR  BEN, 


Do  not  think  I  am  reading  hard :  I  believe  it  is  all 
over  with  that.  I  have  had  a  recurrence  of  my  old 
complaint  within  this  last  four  or  five  days,  which  has 
half  unnerved  me  for  everything.  The  state  of  my  health 
is  really  miserable  ;  I  am  well  and  lively  in  the  morning, 
and  overwhelmed  with  nervous  horrors  in  the  evening. 
I  do  not  know  how  to  proceed  with  regard'  to  my 
studies  : — a  very  slight  over-stretch  of  the  mind  in  the 
day-time  occasions  me  not  only  a  sleepless  night,  but  a 
night  of  gloom  and  horror.  The  systole  and  diastole  of 
my  heart  seem  to  be  playing  at  ball — the  stake,  my  life. 
I  can  only  say  the  game  is  not  yet  decided  : — I  allude  to 
the  violence  of  the  palpitation. 

I  am  going  to  mount  the  Gog-magog  hills  this  morn- 
ing, in  quest  of  a  good  night's  sleep.  The  Gog-magog 
hills  for  my  body,  and  the  Bible  for  my  mind,  are  my 
only  medicines.  1  am  sorry  to  say,  that  neither  are 
quite  adequate.  Cui,  igitur ;  dandum  est  vitio  9  Mihi 
prorsiis.  I  hope,  as  the  summer  comes,  my  spirits  (which 
have  been  with  the  swallows  a  winter's  journey)  will 
come  with  it.  When  my  spirits  are  restored,  my  health 
will  be  restored : — the  fons  mail  lies  there.  Give  me 
serenity  and  equability  of  mind,  and  all  will  be  well 
there. 


*  *         *         *         * 

*  *         »         *         * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  nth  March,  1806. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


I  HOPE  you  read  Mason  on  Self-knowledge  now  and 
then.     It  is  a  useful  book ;  and  it  will  help  you  greatly 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  315 

in  framing  your  spirit  to  the  ways  of  humility,  piety,  and 
peace.  Reading,  occasional  meditation,  and  constant 
prayer,  will  infallibly  guide  you  to  happiness,  as  far  as 
we  can  be  happy  here ;  and  will  help  you  on  your  way  to 
that  blessed  abode,  where  I  hope,  ardently  hope,  we 
shall  all  meet  hereafter  in  the  assembly  of  the  saints. 
Go  coolly  and  deliberately,  but  determinately,  to  the 
work  of  your  salvation.  Do  nothing  here  in  a  hurry ; 
deliberate  upon  everything  ;  take  your  steps  cautiously, 
yet  with  a  simple  reliance  on  the  mercy  of  your  God  and 
Saviour  ;  and  wherever  you  see  your  duty  lie,  lose  no 
time  in  acting  up  to  it.  This  is  the  only  way  to  arrive 
at  comfort  in  your  christian  career ;  and  the  constant 
observance  of  this  maxim  will,  with  the  assistance  of  God, 
smooth  your  way  with  quietness  and  repose,  even  to  the 
brink  of  eternity,  and  beyond  the  gulf  that  bounds  it. 

I  had  almost  dropped  the  idea  of  seeing  Nottingham 
this  next  long  vacation,  as  my  stay  in  Cambridge  may 
be  importantly  useful ;  but  I  think  now,  I  shall  go  down 
for  my  health's,  and  more  particularly  for  my  mother's 
sake,  whom  my  presence  will  comfort,  and  perhaps  help. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  moor  all  my  family  in  the  harbour  of 
religious  trust,  and  in  the  calm  seas  of  religious  peace. 
These  concerns  are  apt,  at  times,  to  escape  me  ;  but 
they  now  press  much  upon  my  heart ;  and  I  think  it  is 
my  first  duty  to  see  that  my  family  are  safe  in  the  most 
important  of  all  affairs. 


TO  THE  REV.   J.  PLUMBTRE. 

St.  John's,  March  12th,  ]80a 
DEAR  SIR, 

I  HOPE  you  will  excuse  the  long  delay  which  I  have 
made  in  sending  the  song.  I  am  afraid  I  have  trespass- 
ed on  your  patience,  if  indeed  so  unimportant  a  subject 
can  have  given  you  any  thought  at  all.  If  you  think  it 
worth  Avhile  to  send  the  song  to  your  publisher,  I  should 
prefer  the  omission  of  the  writer's  name,  as  the  insertion 
of  it  would  only  be  a  piece  of  idle  ostentation,  and  answer 
no  end.  My  name  will  neither  give  credit  to  the  verses, 
nor  the  verses  confer  honor  on  my  name. 


316  COMPLETE    WORKS 

It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  that  your  labors 
have  been  successful  in  the  town  of  *  *  *,  where,  I 
fear,  much  is  to  be  done.  I  am  one  of  those  who  think 
that  the  love  of  virtue  is  not  sufficient  to  make  a  virtu- 
ous man  ;  for  the  love  of  virtue  is  a  mere  mental  prefer- 
ence of  the  beautiful  to  the  deformed ;  and  we  see  but 
too  often  that  immediate  gratification  outweighs  the  dic- 
tates of  our  judgment.  If  men  could  always  perform 
their  duty  as  well  as  they  can  discern  it,  or  if  they 
would  attend  to  their  real  interests  as  well  as  they  can  see 
them,  there  would  be  little  occasion  for  moral  instruction. 
Sir  Richard  Steele,  who  wrote  like  a  saint,  and  who,  in 
his  Christian  Hero,  shows  the  strongest  marks  of  a 
religious  and  devout  heart,  lived,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  a  drunkard  and  a  debauchee.  And  what  can  be 
the  cause  of  this  apparent  contradiction  ?  Was  it  that 
he  had  not  strength  of  mind  to  act  up  to  his  views  ? 
Then  a  man's  salvation  may  depend  on  strength  of  intel- 
lect ! !  Or  does  not  this  rather  show  that  superior 
motives  are  wanting  ?  That  assistance  is  yet  necessary, 
when  the  ablest  of  men  has  done  his  utmost  ?  If  then 
»such  aid  be  necessary,  how  can  it  be  obtained  ? — by  a 
virtuous  life  ? — Surely  not :  because,  to  live  really  a 
virtuous  life,  implies  this  aid  to  have  been  first  given. 
We  are  told  in  Scripture  how  it  may  be  attained,  name- 
ly, by  humble  trust  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  as  our 
atoning  sacrifice.  This,  therefore,  is  the  foundation  of 
religious  life,  and  as  such,  ought  to  be  the  fundamental 
principle  of  religious  instruction.  This  is  the  test  of 
our  obedience,  the  indispensable  preliminary  before  we 
ca,n  enjoy  the  favor  of  God.  What,  therefore,  can  Ave 
urge  with  more  propriety  from  the  pulpit  than  faith  ? — 
to  preach  morality  does  not  include  the  principle  of 
faith — to  preach  faith  includes  every  branch  of  morality, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  affords  it  its  present  sanctions 
and  its  strongest  incitements. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  trespassed  on  your  patience,  and  I 
must  beg  of  you  to  excuse  the  badness  of  the  writing, 
for  which  I  have  the  plea  of  illness.  I  hope  your  health 
is  yet  firm,  and  that  God  will  in  mercy  prosper  your 
endeavours  for  the  good  of  your  flock.  I  am,  dear  sir, 
very  respectfully  yours, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  317 

TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St    John's,  Cambridge,  April,  1806 


DEAR  MOTHER, 


I  AM  quite  unhappy  to  see  you  so  anxious  on  my  ac- 
count, and  also  that  you  should  think  me  neglectful  of 
you.  BeUeve  me,  my  dear  mother,  my  thoughts  are 
often  with  you.  Never  do  I  lay  myself  on  my  bed,  be- 
fore you  have  all  passed  before  me  in  my  prayers  ;  and 
one  of  my  first  earthly  wishes  is  to  make  you  comforta- 
ble, and  provide  that  rest  and  quiet  for  your  mind  which 
you  so  much  need  :  and  never  fear  but  I  shall  have  it 
in  my  power  sometime  or  other.  My  prospects  wear  a 
flattering  appearance.  I  shall  be  almost  sure  of  a  fel- 
lowship somewhere  or  other,  and  then,  if  I  get  a  curacy 
in  Cambridge,  I  shall  have  a  clear  income  of  170/.  per 
annum,  besides  my  board  and  lodging,  perhaps  nK)fe. 
If  I  do  not  reside  in  Cambridge,  I  shall  have  some  quiet 
parsonage,  where  you  may  come  and  spend  the  summer, 
months.  Maria  and  Kate  will  then  be  older,  and  you 
will  be  less  missed.  On  all  accounts  you  have  much 
reason  to  indulge  happier  dreams.  My  health  is  con- 
siderably better.  Only  do  you  take  as  much  care  of 
yours  as  I  do  of  mine,  and  all  will  be  well.  I  exhort, 
and  entreat,  and  beseech  you,  as  you  love  me,  and  all 
your  children,  that  you  will  take  your  bitters  without 
ceasing.  As  you  wish  me  to  pay  regard  to  your  exhor- 
tations, attend  to  this. 


TO  HIS   MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  April,  1806. 
DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  AM  a  good  deal  surprised  at  not  having  heard  from 
you  in  answer  to  my  last.  You  will  be  surprised  to 
hear  the  purport  of  my  present  letter,  which  is  no  less 
than  that  I  shall  spend  the  ensuing  Easter  vacation  in 
Nottingham.  The  reasons  which  have  induced  me  to 
27* 


318  COMPLETE    WORKS 

make  this  so  wide  an  alteration  in  my  plan,  are  these  : 
i  have  had  some  symptoms  of  the  return  of  my  old  com- 
plaint, and  both  my  doctor  and  tutor  think  I  had  better 
take  a  fortnight's  relaxation  at  home.  I  hope  you  will 
not  think  I  have  neglected  exercise,  since  I  have  taken 
more  this  term  than  I  ever  did  before  ;  but  I  shall  enlarge 
my  hours  of  recreation  still  more,  since  I  find  it  neces- 
sary, for  my  health's  sake,  so  to  do. 

You  need  not  give  yourself  any  uneasiness  as  to  my 
health,  for  I  am  quite  recovered.  I  was  chiefly  afllicted 
with  sleeplessness  and  palpitations  of  the  heart,  which 
symptoms  have  now  disappeared,  and  I  am  quite  restor- 
ed to  my  former  good  health.  My  journey  will  reestab- 
lish me  completely,  and  it  will  give  me  no  small  pleasure 
to  see  you  after  so  long  an  absence  from  home.  I  shall 
be  very  idle  while  I  am  at  Nottingham  ;  I  shall  .only 
amuse  myself  with  teaching  Maria  and  Kate. 


(  SUPPOSED  TO  BE   ADDRESSED  ) 
TO  MRS.  WEST. 

I  HAVE  stolen  your  first  volume  of  Letters  from  the 
chimney-piece  of  a  college  friend,  and  I  have  been  so 
much  pleased  both  with  the  spirit,  conduct,  and  style  of 
the  work,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  writing  to  tell  you 
so.  I  shall  read  the  remaining  volumes  immediately; 
but  as  I  am  at  this  moment  just  in  that  desultory  mood 
when  a  man  can  best  write  a  letter,  I  have  determined 
not  to  delay  what,  if  I  defer  at  all,  I  shall  probably  not 
do  at  all. 

Well,  then,  my  dear  Madam,  although  I  have  insidi- 
ously given  you  to  understand,  that  I  write  to  tell  you 
how  much  I  approve  your  work,  I  will  be  frank  enough 
to  tell  you  likewise,  that  I  think,  in  one  point,  it  is 
faulty  :  and  that,  if  I  had  not  discovered  what  I  consider 
to  be  a  defect  in  the  book,  I  should  probably  not  have 
written  for  the  mere  purpose  of  declaiming  on  its  excel- 
lences. 

Start  not,  Madam  ;  it  is  in  that  very  point  whereon 
you  have  bestowed  most  pains,  that  I  think  the  work  is 
faulty — Religion.     If  I  mistake  not,  there  will  be  some 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  319 

little  confusion  of  idea  detected,  if  we  examine  this  part 
narrowly  ;  and  as  I  am  not  quite  idle  enough  to  write 
my  opinions  without  giving  the  reasons  for  them,  I  will 
endeavour  to  explain  why  I  think  so. 

Religion,  then,  Madam,  I  conceive  to  be  the  service  a 
creature  owes  to  his  Creator  ;  and  I  take  it  for  granted, 
that  service  implies  some  self-denial,  and  some  labor  ;  for 
if  it  did  not  involve  something  unpleasing  to  ourselves, 
it  would  be  a  duty  we  should  all  of  necessity  perform. 
Well,  then,  if  religion  call  for  self-denial,  there  must  be 
some  motive  to  induce  men  voluntarily  to  undergo  such 
privations  as  may  be  consequent  on  a  religious  life,  and 
those  motives  must  be  such  as  affect  either  the  present 
state  of  existence,  or  some  future  state  of  existence. 
Certainly,  then,  those  motives  which  arise  from  the  ex- 
pectation of  a  future  state  of  existence,  must,  in  reality, 
be  infinitely  more  important  than  those  which  are  found- 
ed in  temporal  concerns,  although,  to  mankind,  thejm- 
mediate  presence  of  temporal  things  may  outweigh  the 
distant  apprehension  of  the  future.  Granting,  therefore, 
that  the  future  world  is  the  main  object  of  our  religious 
exercises,  it  will  follow  that  they  are  the  most  impor- 
tant concerns  of  a  man's  life,  and  that  every  other  con- 
sideration is  light  and  trifling  in  the  comparison.  For 
the  world  to  come  is  everlasting,  while  the  present  world 
is  but  very  short.  Foolish,  then,  indeed,  and  short- 
sighted must  that  creature  be,  which  can  prefer  the 
conveniences  and  accommodations  of  the  present  to  the 
happiness  of  the  eternal  future. 

All  Christians,  therefore,  who  undertake  to  lay  down 
a  chart  for  the  young  and  inexperienced,  by  which  they 
may  steer  with  security  through  the  ocean  of  life,  will 
be  expected  to  make  religion  a  prominent  feature  on  the 
canvass  ;  and  that,  too,  not  only  by  giving  it  a  larger 
space,  but  by  enforcing  the  superiority  of  this  consider- 
ation to  every  other.  Now  this  is  what  I  humbly  con- 
ceive you  have  not  altogether  done  ;  and  I  think,  indeed, 
if  I  be  competent  to  judge,  you  have  failed  in  two 
points  ; — in  making  religion  only  a  subordinate  consider- 
ation to  a  young  man,  and  in  not  defining  distinctly  the 
essentials  of  religion. 

I  would  ask  you,  then,  in  what  way  you  so  impress 
religion  on  the  mind  of  your  son,  as  one  would  expect 


320  COMPLETE    WORKS 

that  person  would  impress  it  who  was  conscious  that  it 
was  of  the  first  importance.  Do  you  instruct  him  to 
turn  occasionally,  when  his  leisure  may  permit,  to  pious 
and  devout  meditation  ?  Do  you  direct  him  to  make 
religion  the  one  great  aim  and  end  of  his  being  ?  Do 
you  exhort  him  to  frequent,  private,  and  earnest  prayer 
to  the  Spirit  of  Holiness,  that  he  would  sanctify  all  his 
doings  ?  Do  you  teach  him  that  the  praise  or  the  cen- 
sure, the  admiration  or  the  contempt  of  the  world,  is  of 
little  importance,  so  as  his  heart  be  right  before  the 
Great  Judge  ?  Do  you  tell  him  that,  as  his  reason  now 
opens,  he  should  gradually  withdraw  from  the  gayer 
and  occasionally  more  unlicensed  diversions  of  the 
world — the  ball-room,  the  theatre,  and  the  public  con- 
cert, in  order  that  he  may  abstract  his  mind  more  from 
the  too-fascinating  dehghts  of  life,  and  fit  himself  for  the 
new  scene  of  existence,  which  will,  sooner  or  later,  open 
upon  his  view  ?  No,  Madam,  I  think  you  do  not  do  this. 
You  tell  him  there  is  a  deal  of  enthusiasm  in  persons 
who,  though  they  mean  well,  are  over-strict  in  their 
religious  performances.  You  tell  him,  that  assemblies, 
dances,  theatres,  are  elegant  amusements,  though  you 
couple  the  fine  arts  with  them,  which  I  am  sorry  to  see 
in  such  company.  I,  too,  am  enthusiastically  attached  to 
the  fine  arts.  Poetry,  painting,  and  music,  are  amongst 
my  most  delicious  and  chastest  pleasures ;  and  happy 
indeed  do  I  feel  when  I  can  make  even  these  contribute 
to  the  great  end,  and  draw  my  soul  from  its  sphere,  to 
fix  it  on  its  Maker  and  Redeemer.  I  am  fond,  too,  of 
tragedy,  and  though  I  do  not  find  it  with  so  nmch  purity 
and  chastity  in  Shakspeare  as  in  the  old  Greek  drama- 
tists, yet  I  know  how  to  appreciate  its  beauties  in  him 
too.  Besides  these,  I  have  a  thousand  other  amuse- 
ments of  the  most  refined  nature,  without  either  theatres, 
balls,  or  card-tables.  The  theatre  is  not  in  itself  an 
immoral  institution,  but  in  its  present  state  it  is  :  and  1 
feel  much  for  an  uncorrupted,  frank  lad  of  fourteen,  who 
is  permitted  to  visit  this  stew  of  licentiousness,  impu- 
dence and  vice.  Your  plan  seems  to  me  this  : — Teach  a 
boy  to  lead  an  honest,  upright  life,  and  to  do  his  duty, 
and  he  will  gain  the  good  will  of  God  by  the  very  tenor 
of  his  actions.  This  is,  indeed,  an  easy  kind  of  religion, 
for  it  involves  no  self-denial ;  but  true  religion  does  involve 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  321 

self-denial.  The  inference  is  obvious.  I  say  it  involves 
no  self-denial ;  because  a  well-educated  sensible  lad  will 
see  so  many  inconveniences  in  vicious  indulgences,  that 
he  will  choose  the  virtuous  by  a  natural  effort  of  the 
understanding  ;  and  so,  according  to  this  system,  he  will 
ensure  heaven  by  the  soundness  of  his  policy  and  the 
rectitude  of  his  understanding. 

Admitting  this  to  be  a  true  doctrine,  Christianity  has 
been  of  no  material  service  to  mankind  ;  and  the  Son 
of  God  might  have  spared  his  blood  ;  for  the  heathens 
knew  all  this,  and  not  only  knew  it,  but  many  of  them 
put  it  into  practice.  What  then  has  Christianity  done  ^ 
— But  the  Scripture  teaches  us  the  reverse  of  this  :  it 
teaches  us  to  give  God  our  whole  heart,  to  live  to  him, 
to  pray  continually,  and  to  fix  our  affections,  not  on 
things  temporal,  but  on  things  eternal.  Now,  I  ask  you, 
whether,  without  any  sophistry,  or  any  perversion  of 
the  meaning  of  words,  you  can  reconcile  this  with  your 
religious  instruction  to  your  son  .'* 

I  think,  likewise,  that  you  do  not  define  the  essentials 
of  religion  distinctly.  We  are  either  saved  by  the  atone- 
ment of  Jesus  Christ,  or  we  are  not ;  and  if  we  are,  then 
all  men  are  necessarily  saved,  or  some  are  necessarily 
not  saved ;  and  if  some  are  not  saved,  it  must  be  from 
causes  either  existing  in  the  individuals  themselves,  or 
from  causes  existing  in  the  economy  of  God's  dispensa- 
tions. Now,  Madam,  we  are  told  that  Jesus  Christ  died 
for  all ;  but  we  grant  that  all  are  not  saved.  Why  then 
are  some  not  saved  ?  It  is  because  they  do  not  act  in  a 
manner  Avorthy  of  God's  favor  !  Then  a  man's  salvation 
depends  upon  his  actions.  But  we  are  told  in  Scripture, 
that  it  does  not  depend  on  his  actions — '  By  faith  are  ye 
saved,  without  the  works  of  the  law ;' — therefore  it 
either  must  depend  on  some  other  effort  of  the  creature, 
or  on  the  will  of  the  Creator.  I  will  not  dispute  the 
question  of  Calvinism  with  you ;  I  will  grant  that  Cal- 
vinism is  indefensible  ;  but  this  all  must  concede  who 
believe  the  Scriptures,  that  we  are  to  be  saved  by  faith 
only  through  Jesus  Christ.  I  ask,  therefore,  whether 
you  have  taught  this  to  your  son  ;  and  I  ask  whether 
there  is  one  trait  in  your  instructions,  in  common  with 
the  humbling,  self-denying  religion  taught  by  the  Apos- 
tles, by  the  homilies  of  our  church,  and  by  all  the  re- 


S22  COMPLETE    WORKS 

formers  ?  The  chief  argument  of  the  latter  against  the 
Romish  church,  was  their  asserting  the  validity  of  works. 
Now,  what  ideas  must  your  son  have  of  christian  faith  ? 
You  say,  that  even  Sliakspeare^s  debauchees  icere  believers;  and 
he  is  given  to  understand,  that  he  is  a  good  Christian, 
if  he  do  his  duty  to  his  master  and  fellows,  go  to  church 
every  Sunday,  and  keep  clear  of  enthusiasm.  And  what 
has  Jesus  Christ  to  do  with  your  system  ;  and  where  is 
that  faith  banished,  of  which  every  page  of  Scripture  is 
full  ? — Can  this  be  right  ?  ^Closet  devotion''  is  the  means 
of  attaining  faith  ;  and  humble  prayer  is  the  true  means 
of  arriving  at  fervency  in  religion,  without  enthusiasm. 
You  condemn  Socinianism  ;  but  I  ask  you  where  Jesus 
Christ  appears  in  your  scheme,  and  where  the  influen- 
ces of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  even  his  names,  are  banished 
from  it  .'' 


TO  MR.  P.  THOMPSON. 

Nottingham,  April  8tii,  1806. 


DEAR  SIR, 


I  SINCERELY  bcg  youF  pardou  for  my  ungrateful  disre- 
gard of  your  polite  letter.  The  intervening  period  has 
been  so  much  taken  up,  on  the  one  hand,  by  ill  health, 
and  on  the  other  by  occupations  of  the  most  indispensa- 
ble kind,  that  I  have  neglected  almost  all  my  friends, 
and  you  amongst  the  rest.  I  am  now  at  Nottingham,  a 
truant  from  study,  and  a  rejected  votary  at  the  shrine 
of  Health  ;  a  few  days  will  bring  me  back  to  the  margin 
of  the  Cam,  and  bury  me  once  more  in  the  busy  routine 
of  college  exercises.  Before,  howeVer,  I  am  again  a 
man  of  bustle  and  occupation,  I  snatch  a  few  moments 
to  tell  you  how  much  I  shall  be  gratified  by  your  corres- 
pondence, and  how  greatly  I  think  myself  flattered  by 
your  esteeming  mine  worth  asking  for. 

The  little  sketch  of  your  past  occupations  and  present 
pursuits  interested  me.  Cultivate,  with  all  assiduity, 
the  taste  for  letters  which  you  possess.  It  will  be  a 
source  of  exquisite  gratification  to  you  :  and  if  directed 
as  it  ought  to  be,  and  I  hope  as  it  will  be  directed,  it 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  S2S 

will  be  more  than  gratification,  (if  we  understand  pleas- 
ure alone  by  that  word,)  since  it  will  combine  with  it 
utility  of  the  highest  kind.  If  polite  letters  were  merely 
instrumental  in  cheering  the  hours  of  elegant  leisure,  in 
affording  refined  and  polished  pleasures,  uncontaminated 
with  gross  and  sensual  gratifications,  they  would  still  be 
valuable  ;  but  in  a  degree  infinitely  less  than  when  they 
are  considered  as  the  handmaids  of  the  virtues,  the  cor- 
rectors as  well  as  the  adorners  of  society.  But  litera- 
ture has,  of  late  years,  been  prostituted  to  all  the  pur- 
poses of  the  bagnio.  Poetry,  in  particular,  arrayed  in 
her  most  bewitching  colors,  has  been  taught  to  exercise 
the  arts  of  the  Leno,  and  to  charm  only  that  she  may 
destroy.  The  Muse,  who  once  dipped  her  hardy  wing 
in  the  chastest  dews  of  CastaUa,  and  spoke  nothing  but 
what  had  a  tendency  to  confirm  and  invigorate  the  man- 
ly ardor  of  a  virtuous  mind,  now  breathes  only  the  vo- 
luptuous languishings  of  the  harlot,  and,  like  the  brood 
of  Circe,  touches  her  charmed  chords  with  a  grace,  that 
while  it  ravishes  the  ear,  deludes  and  beguiles  the  sense. 
I  call  to  witness  Mr.  Moore,  and  the  tribe  of  imitators 
which  his  success  has  called  forth,  that  my  statement 
is  true.  Lord  Strangford  has  trodden  faithfully  in  the 
steps  of  his  pattern. 

***** 
I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  poetry,  that  the  good  sense  of 
the  age  will  scout  this  insidious  school ;  and  what  may 
we  not  expect,  if  Moore  and  Lord  Strangford  apply  them- 
selves to  a  chaster  muse  ? — They  are  both  men  of  un- 
common powers.  You  may  remember  the  reign  of  Dar- 
winian poetry,  and  the  fopperies  of  Delia  Crusca.  To 
these  succeeded  the  school  of  Simplicity,  in  which  Words- 
worth, Southey,  and  Coleridge,  are  so  deservedly  emi- 
nent. I  think  that  the  new  tribe  of  poets  endeavour  to 
combine  these  two  opposite  sects,  and  to  unite  richness 
of  language,  and  warmth  of  coloring,  with  simplicity 
and  pathos.  They  have  certainly  succeeded  ;  but  Moore 
unhappily  wi^shed  to  be  a  Catullus,  and  from  him  has 
sprung  the  licentiousness  of  the  new  school.  Moore's 
poems  and  his  translations  will,  I  think,  have  more  in- 
fluence on  the  female  society  of  this  kingdom,  than  the 
stage  has  had  in  its  worst  period,  the  reign  of  Charles  IL 


324  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Ladies  are  not  ashamed  of  having  the  delectable  Mr. 
Little  on  their  toilet,  which  is  a  pretty  good  proof  that 
his  voluptuousness  is  considered  as  quite  veiled  by  the 
sentimental  garb  in  which  it  is  clad.  But  voluptuous- 
ness is  not  the  less  dangerous  for  having  some  slight 
resemblance  of  the  veil  of  modesty.  On  the  contrary, 
her  fascinations  are  infinitely  more  powerful  in  this 
retiring  habit,  than  when  she  boldly  protrudes  herself 
on  the  gazer's  eye,  and  openly  solicits  his  attention. 
The  broad  indecency  of  Wycherly,  and  his  contempora- 
ries, was  not  half  so  dangerous  as  this  insinuating  and  half- 
covered  moc/b-delicacy,  which  makes  use  of  the  blush  of 
modesty  in  order  to  heighten  the  charms  of  vice. 

I  must  conclude  somewhat  abruptly,  by  begging  you 
will  not  punish  my  negligence  towards  you  by  retarding 
the  pleasure  I  shall  receive  from  your  answer.  I  am, 
very  truly  yours. 

H.  K.  WHITE. 

Address  to  me,  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  May,  1806. 


MY  DEAR  NEVILLE 


My  long  delayed  and  very  anciently-promised  letter 
to  Charlesworth  will  reach  him  shortly.  Tell  him  that 
I  have  written  once  to  him  in  Latin  ;  but  that  having 
torn  the  paper  in  two  by  a  mistake,  I  could  not  summon 
resolution  to  copy  it. 

I  was  glad  to  hear  of  the  eclat  with  which  he  disputed 
and  came  off  on  so  difficult  a  subject  as  the  Nerves  ;  and 
1  beg  him,  if  he  have  made  any  discoveries,  to  commu- 
nicate them  to  me,  who,  being  persecuted  by  these 
same  nerves,  should  be  glad  to  have  some  better  ac- 
quaintance with  my  invisible  enemies. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  S25 

TO  HIS   SISTER. 

St.  John's,  June  25th,  1806. 


MY  DEAR  SISTER, 


The  intelligence  you  gave  me  of  Mr.  Forest's  illness, 
&c.  &c.  cannot  affect  me  in  any  way  whatever.  The 
mastership  of  the  school  must  be  held  by  a  clergyman ; 
and  I  very  well  recollect  that  he  is  restrained  from  holding 
any  curacy,  or  other  ministerial  office.  The  salary  is  not 
so  large  as  you  mention  :  and  if  it  were,  the  place  would 
scarcely  be  an  object  to  me  :  for  I  am  very  certain,  that 
if  I  choose,  when  I  have  taken  my  degree,  I  may  have 
half-a-dozen  pupils  to  prepare  for  the  university,  with  a 
salary  of  100/.  per  annum,  which  would  be  more  respect- 
able, and  more  consonant  to  my  habits  and  studies,  than 
drilling  the  fry  of  a  trading  town,  in  learning  which 
they  do  not  know  how  to  value.  Latin  and  Greek  are 
nothing  like  so  much  respected  in  Nottingham  as  Win* 
gate's  Arithmetic. 

***** 

It  is  well  for  you  that  you  can  still  enjoy  the  privilege 
of  sitting  under  the  sound  of  the  Gospel ;  and  the  wants 
of  others,  in  these  respects,  will,  perhaps,  teach'  you 
how  to  value  the  blessing.  AH  our  comforts,  and  almost 
all  our  hopes  here,  lie  at  the  mercy  of  every  succeeding 
hour.  Death  is  always  at  hand  to  bereave  us  of  some 
dear  connexion,  or  to  snatch  us  away  from  those  who 
may  need  our  counsel  and  protection.  I  do  not  see  how 
any  person,  capable  of  reflection,  can  live  easily  and 
fearlessly  in  these  circumstances,  unless  he  have  a  well- 
grounded  confidence  in  the  providing  care  of  the  Almigh- 
ty, and  a  strong  belief  that  his  hand  is  in  every  event, 
and  that  it  is  a  hand  of  mercy.  The  chances  and  chan- 
ges of  mortal  life  are  so  many  and  various,  that  a  person 
cannot  possibly  fortify  himself  against  the  contingencies 
of  futurity  without  some  such  hold  as  this,  on  which  to 
repose  amidst  the  contending  gales  of  doubt  and  appre- 
hension. This  I  say  as  affecting  the  present  life  : — our 
views  of  the  future  can  never  be  secure^  they  can  never 
be  comfortable  or  calm,  without  a  solid  faith  in  the  Re- 
deemer. Men  may  reason  about  the  divine  benevolence, 
28 


326  COMPLETE    WORKS 

the  certainty  of  a  future  state,  and  the  probable  means 
of  propitiating  the  Great  Judge,  but  their  speculations 
will  only  entangle  them  in  the  mazes  of  doubt,  perplexi- 
ty, and  alarm,  unless  they  found  their  hopes  on  that 
basis  which  shall  outstand  the  tide  of  ages.     If  we  take 
this  away,  the  poor  bark  of  mortality  loses  its  only  stay, 
and  we  steer  at  random,  we  know  not  how,  we  know  not 
whither.     The  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  is  strength  to  the 
weak,  and  wisdom  to  the  unwise.     It  requires  no  pre- 
parative of  learning  nor  study,  but  is,  if  possible,  more 
obvious  and  easy  to  the  illiterate  than  to  the  erudite. 
No  man,  therefore,  has  any  excuse   if  he   neglect   it. 
The  way  is  plain  before  him,  and  he  is  invited  to  enter. 
He  has  only  to  kneel  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  cry, 
with  the  poor  publican,  '  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me,  a 
miserable  sinner.'     If  he  do  this,  and  examine  his  own 
heart,  and  mortify  the  body  of  sin  within  him,  as  far  as 
he  is  able,  humbly  and  earnestly  imploring  the  assist- 
ance of  God's  holy  Spirit,  we  cannot  doubt  but  he  will 
meet  with  the  approbation  and  assistance  of  the  Almigh- 
ty.    In  this  path  we  must  all  tread.     In  this  path  I  hope 
that  you,  my  dear   sister,   are   now   proceeding.     You 
have  children  ;  to  whom  can  you  commit  them,  should 
Providence  call  you  hence,  with  more  confidence  than 
the  meek  and  benevolent  Jesus  .?    What  legacy  can  you 
leave  them  more  certainly  profitable,  than  the  prayers 
of  a  pious  mother  ?     And  if,  taught  by  your  example,  as 
well  as  by  your  instructions,  they  should  become  them- 
selves patterns  of  a  holy  and  religious  life,  how  sweetly 
will  the  evening  of  your  days  shine  upon  your  head,  as 
you  behold  them  treading  in  those  ways   which   you 
know,  by  experience,  to  be  ways  of  pleasantness  and 
peace  !     I  need  not  press  this  subject.     I  know  you  feel 
all  that  I  say,  and  more  than  I  can  express.     I  only  fear 
that  the  bustle  of  family  cares,  as  well  as  many  anxieties 
of  mind  on  other  accounts,  should  too  much  divert  you 
from  these  important  objects.     Let  me  only  remind  you, 
that  the  prayers  of  the  afflicted  are  particularly  accept- 
able to  God.     The  sigh  of  the  penitent  is  not  too  light  to 
reach  his  ear.     The  eye  of  God  is  fixed  as  intently  upon 
your  soul  at  all  times,  as  it  is  upon  the  revolution  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  and  the  regulation   of  systems.     God 
surveys  all  things,  and  he  contemplates  them  with  per- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  327 

feet  attention  ;  and,  consequently,  he  is  as  intently  con- 
versant about  the  smallest  as  about  the  greatest  things. 
For  if  he  were  not  as  perfectly  intent  on  the  soul  of  an 
individual  being  as  he  is  about  the  general  concerns  of 
the  universe,  then  he  would  do  one  thing  less  perfectly 
than  another  :  which  is  impossible  in  God. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  June  30th,  1806. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

1  RECEIVED  your  letter  yesterday  ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
not  think  my  past  silence  at  all  in  need  of  apology,  when 
you  know  that  our  examination  only  closed  on  Saturday. 

I  have  the  satisfaction  of  informing  you,  that  after  a 
week's  scrutiny,  I  was  deemed  to  be  the  first  man.  I 
had  very  little  hopes  of  arriving  at  so  distinguishing  a 
station,  on  account  of  my  many  checks  and  interruptions. 
It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  observe  how  all  the  men 
rejoiced  in  my  success.  It  was  on  Monday  that  the 
classes  were  published.  I  am  a  prize-man  both  in  the 
mathematical  and  logical,  or  general  examination,  and 
in,  Latin  composition. 

Mr.  Catton  has  expressed  his  great  satisfaction  at  my 
progress  :  and  he  has  offered  to  supply  me  with  a  private 
tutor  for  the  four  months  of  the  vacation,  free  of  any  ex- 
pense. This  will  cost  the  college  twelve  or  fifteen  guin- 
eas at  least.  My  last  term  bill  amounts  only  to  41.  5s. 
3d.  after  my  exhibitions  are  deducted. 

I  had  engaged  to  take  charge  of  a  few  classical  pupils, 
for  a  clergyman  in  Warwickshire,  during  one  month  of 
the  vacation,  for  which  I  was  to  receive,  besides  my 
board,  &c.  &c.  ten  guineas ;  but  Mr.  Catton  says  this  is 
a  piece  of  extreme  folly,  as  it  will  consume  time,  and  do 
me  no  good.  He  told  me,  therefore,  positively,  that  he 
would  not  give  me  an  exeat,  without  which  no  man  can 
leave  his  college  for  the  night. 

I  cannot,  therefore,  at  all  events,  visit  Nottingham 
with  my  aunt,  nor  meet  her  there. 

I  could  now,  if  I  chose,  leave  St.  John's  College,  and 


S2S  COMP.LETE    WORKS 

go  to  another  with  great  eclat ;  but  it  would  be  an  unad- 
visable  step.  I  believe,  however,  it  will  be  impossible 
for  them  to  elect  me  a  fellow  at  St.  John's,  as  my  county 
is  under  particular  restrictions.  They  can  give  me  a 
fellowship  of  smaller  value,  but  I  had  rather  get  one  at 
another  college  :  at  all  events,  the  smaller  colleges  will 
be  glad  to  elect  me  from  St.  John's. 

***** 

With  regard  to  cash,  I  manage  pretty  well,  though 
my  fund  is  at  present  at  its  lowest  ebb.  My  bills,  how- 
ever, are  paid ;  and  I  have  no  occasion  for  money,  ex- 
cept as  a  private  convenience.  The  question  therefore 
is,  whether  it  will  be  more  inconvenient  to  you  than 
convenient  to  me  for  you  to  replenish  my  purse.  Decide 
impartially.  I  have  not  drawn  upon  my  mother  since 
Christmas,  except  for  the  expense  of  my  journey  up 
from  Nottingham  to  Cambridge  ;  nor  do  I  mean  to  do  it 
till  next  Christmas,  when,  as  I  have  ordered  a  suit  of 
clothes,  I  shall  have  a  good  many  calls  for  money. 

Let  me  have  a  long  letter  from  you  soon. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  July  9th,  1806. 
MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  HAVE  scarcely  time  to  write  you  a  long  letter ;  but 
the  pleasing  nature  of  my  intelligence  will,  1  hope,  make 
up  for  its  shortness.  ,     .  i   j       i       u 

After  a  week's  examination,  I  am  decided  to  be  the 
first  man  of  my  year  at  St.  John's  :  an  honor  I  had 
scarcely  hoped  for,  since  my  reading  has  been  so  very 
broken  and  interrupted.  The  contest  was  very  stitt, 
and  the  men  all  acquitted  themselves  very  well.  We 
had  thirteen  men  in  the  first  class,  though  there  are  sel- 
dom more  than  six  or  eight  who  attain  that  rank  m 

common.  .  •      i      •     i 

I  have  learned  also,  that  I  am  a  prize-man  in  classical 
composition,  though  I  do  not  yet  know  whereabouts  I 
stand.     It  is  reported  that  here  too  I  am  first. 

Before  it  was  known  that  I  was  the  first  man,  Mr. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  329 

Catton,  our  college  tutor,  told  me  that  he  was  so  satis- 
fied Avith  the  manner  in  which  I  had  passed  through  the 
examination,  that  if  I  chose  to  stay  up  during  the  sum- 
mer, I  should  have  a  private  tutor  in  the  mathematics, 
and  that  it  should  be  no  expense  to  me.  I  could  not  hesi- 
tate at  such  a  proposal,  especially  as  he  did  not  limit  the 
time  for  my  keeping  the  private  tutor,  but  will  probably 
continue  it  as  long  as  I  like.  You  may  estimate  the  val- 
ue of  this  favor,  when  I  tell  you  that  a  private  tutor, 
for  the  whole  vacation,  will  cost  the  college  at  least 
twelve  or  fourteen  guineas,  and  that  during  term  time 
they  receive  ten  guineas  the  term. 

I  cannot  of  course  leave  the  college  this  summer  even 
for  a  week,  and  shall  therefore  miss  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing my  aunt  G at  Nottingham.     I  have  written  to 

her. 

It  gave  me  much  pleasure  to  observe  the  joy  all  the 
men  seemed  to  feel  at  my  success.  I  had  been  on  a 
water  excursion,  with  a  clergyman  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  some  ladies,  and  just  got  home  as  the  men 
were  assembling  for  supper ;  you  can  hardly  conceive 
with  what  pleasure  they  all  flocked  round  me,  with  the 
most  hearty  congratulations,  and  I  found  that  many  of 
them  had  been  seeking  me  all  over  the  college,  in  order 
to  be  the  first  to  communicate  the  good  tidings. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  July,  1806. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  HAVE  good  and  very  bad  news  to  communicate  to 
you.  Good,  that  Mr.  Catton  has  given  me  an  exhibition, 
which  makes  me  up  a  clear  income  of  63Z.  per  annum, 
and  that  I  am  consequently  more  than  independent ; 
bad,  that  I  have  been  very  ill,  notwithstanding  regular 
and  steady  exercise.  Last  Saturday  morning  I  rose  ear- 
ly, and  got  up  some  rather  abstruse  problems  in  mechan- 
ics for  my  tutor,  spent  an  hour  with  him,  between  eight 
and  nine  got  my  breakfast,  and  read  the  Greek  History 
{at  breakfast)  till  ten,  then  sat  down  to  decipher  some 


o30  COMPLETE    WORKS 

logarithm  tables.  I  think  I  had  not  done  anything  at 
them,  when  I  lost  myself.  At  a  quarter  past  eleven  my 
laundress  found  me  bleeding  in  four  different  places  in 
my  face  and  head,  and  insensible.  I  got  up,  and  stag- 
gered about  the  room,  and  she,  being  frightened,  ran 
away,  and  told  my  Gyp  to  fetch  a  surgeon.  Before  he 
came,  I  was  sallying  out  with  my  flannel  gown  on,  and 
my  academical  gown  over  it  :  he  made  me  put  on  my 
coat,  and  then  I  went  to  Mr.  Parish's  :  he  opened  a  vein, 
and  my  recollection  returned.  My  own  idea  was,  that  I 
had  fallen  out  of  bed,  and  so  I  told  Mr.  Parish  at  first ; 
but  I  afterwards  remembered  that  1  had  been  to  Mr. 
Fiske,  and  breakfasted. 

Mr.  Catton  has  insisted  on  my  consulting  Sir  Isaac 
Pennington,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  I  am  to  go 
through  a  course  of  blistering,  &c.  which,  after  the 
bleeding,  will  leave  me  weak  enough. 

I  am,  however,  very  well,  except  as  regards  the  doc- 
tors ;  and  yesterday  I  drove  into  the  country  to  Saffron 
Walden  in  a  gig.  My  tongue  is  in  a  bad  condition,  from 
a  bite  which  I  gave  it  either  in  my  fall,  or  in  the  mo- 
ments of  convulsion.  My  nose  has  also  come  badly  off. 
I  believe  I  fell  against  my  reading  desk.  My  other 
wounds  are  only  rubs  and  scratches  on  the  carpet. 

I  am  ordered  to  remit  my  studies  for  awhile,  by  the 
common  advice  both  of  doctors  and  tutors.  Dr.  Pen- 
nington hopes  to  prevent  any  recurrence  of  the  fit.  He 
thinks  it  looks  towards  epilepsy,  of  the  horrors  of  which 
malady  I  have  a  very  full  and  precise  idea ;  and  I  only 
pray  that  God  will  spare  me  as  respects  my  faculties, 
however  else  it  may  seem  good  to  him  to  afflict  me. 
Were  I  my  own  master,  I  know  how  I  should  act ;  but  I 
am  tied  here  by  bands  which  I  cannot  burst.  I  know 
that  change  of  place  is  needful  ;  but  I  must  not  indulge 
in  the  idea.  The  college  must  not  pay  my  tutor  for 
nothing.  Dr.  Pennington  and  Mr.  Parish  attribute  the 
attack  to  a  too  continued  tension  of  the  faculties.  As  I 
am  much  alone  now,M  never  get  quite  off  study,  and  I 
think  incessantly.  I  know  nature  will  not  endure  this. 
They  both  proposed  my  going  home,  but  Mr.  *  *  did  not 
hint  at  it,  although  much  concerned  ;  and,  indeed,  I  know 
home  would  be  a  bad  pace  for  me  in  my  present  situa- 
tion.    I  look  round  for  a  resting  place,  and  I  find  none. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  SSI 

Yet  there  is  one,  which  I  have  long  too,  too  much  dis- 
regarded, and  thither  I  must  now  betake  myself.  There 
are  many  situations  worse  than  mine,  and  I  have  no 
business  to  complain.  If  these  afflictions  should  draw 
the  bonds  tighter  which  hold  me  to  my  Redeemer,  it 
will  be  well. 

You  may  be  assured  that  you  have  here  a  plain  state- 
ment of  my  case,  in  its  true  colors,  without  any  pallia- 
tion. I  am  now  well  again,  and  have  only  to  fear  a 
relapse,  which  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  prevent,  by  a  re- 
laxation in  study.  I  have  now  written  too  much.  I  am 
very  sincerely  yours,  H.  K.  WHITE. 

P.  S.  I  charge  you,  as  you  value  my  peace,  not  to  let 
my  friends  hear,  either  directly  or  indirectly  of  my  ill- 
ness. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  30th  July,  1806. 
MY  DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  HAD  deferred  sitting  down  to  write  to  you  until  I 
should  have  leisure  to  send  you  a  very  long  letter  ;  but 
as  that  time  seems  every  day  farther  off,  I  shall  beg 
your  patience  no  longer,  but  fill  my  sheet  as  well  as  I 
can. 

I  must  first  reply  to  your  queries.  I  beg  pardon  for 
having  omitted  to  mention  the  receipt  of  the  *  *  *,  but, 
as  I  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the  parcel,  I  concluded 
that  you  would  understand  me  to  mean  its  contents  as 
specified  in  your  letter.  But  I  know  the  accuracy  of  a 
man  of  business  too  well  to  think  your  caution  strange. 
As  to  the  college  prizes,  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  telling 
you  that  I  am  entitled  to  two,  viz.  the  first  for  the  gene- 
ral examination,  and  one  of  the  first  for  the  classical 
composition.  I  say  one  of  the  first  on  this  account — I 
am  put  equal  with  two  others  at  the  top  of  the  list.  In 
this  contest  I  had  all  the  men  of  the  three  years  to 
contend  with,  and,  as  both  my  equals  are  my  seniors 
in  standing,  I  have  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied. 


332  COMPLETE    WORKS 

The  Rhetoric  Lecturer  sent  me  one  of  my  Latin  Es- 
says to  copy,  for  the  purpose  of  inspection ;  a  compU- 
ment  wliich  was  paid  to  none  of  the  rest. 
***** 

We  three  are  the  only  men  who  are  honored  with 
prizes,  so  that  we  have  cut  four  or  five  Eton  men,  who 
are  always  boasting  of  their  classical  ability. 

With  regard  to  your  visit  here,  I  think  you  had  better 
come  in  term  time,  as  the  university  is  quite  empty,  and 
starers  have  nothing  but  the  buildings  to  gaze  at.  If, 
however,  you  can  come  more  conveniently  now  than 
hereafter,  I  would  advise  you  not  to  let  this  circum- 
stance prevent  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  *  *  ^ 
with  you.  You  may  spend  a  few  days  very  pleasantly 
here,  even  in  vacation  time,  though  you  will  scarcely 
meet  a  gownsman  in  the  streets. 

I  thought  the  matter  over  about  *  *  *  *^  but  I  do  not 

think  I  have  any  influence  here.     Being  myself  a  young 

man,  I  cannot  with  any  chance  of  success,   attempt  to 

direct  even  that  interest  which  I  may  claim  with  others. 

*         *         ♦         ♦         * 

The  university  is  the  worst  place  in  the  world  for 
making  interest.  The  great  mass  of  men  are  them- 
selves busily  employed  in  wriggling  themselves  into 
places  and  livings :  and  there  is,  in  general,  too  much 
anxiety  for  No.  1,  to  permit  any  interference  for  a 
neighbour,  No.  2 


TO  HIS   MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  August,  1806. 
MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  HAVE  no  hesitation  in  declining  the  free  school,  on 
the  ground  of  its  precluding  the  exercise  of  the  ministe- 
rial duties.     I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  writing  Mr. 

to  thank  him  for  having  thought  of  me,  and  to  recom- 
mend to  his  notice  Mr. . 

***** 

But  do  not  fret  yourself,  my  dear  mother ;  in  a  few 
years  we  shall,  I  hope,  be  in  happier  circumstances.     I 


OF   H.    K.    WHITE.  SS3 

am  not  too  sanguine  in  my  expectations,  but  I  shall  cer- 
tainly be  able  to  assist  you,  and  my  sisters,  in  a  few 
years.  ***=*«=.  As  for  Maria  and  Kate,  if  they  suc- 
ceed well  in  their  education,  they  may,  perhaps,  be  able 
to  keep  a  school  of  a  superior  kind,  where  the  profits 
will  be  greater,  and  the  labor  less.  I  even  hope  that 
this  may  not  be  necessary,  and  that  you,  my  father  and 
they,  may  come  and  live  with  me  when  I  get  a  parson- 
age.    You  would  be  pleased  to  see  how  comfortably  Mr. 

lives  with  his  mother  and  sisters,  at  a  snug  little 

rectory  about  ten  miles  from  Cambridge.  So  much  for 
castle-building. 


TO  MR.  *    »    * 

St.  John's,  Aug.  15,  ISOS" 
MY  GOOD  FRIEND, 

I  HAVE  deferred  writing  to  you  until  my  return  from 

Mr. 's,  knowing  how  much  you  would  like  to  hear 

from  me  in  respect  to  that  dear  family.  I  am  afraid 
your  patience  has  been  tried  by  this  delay,  and  I  trust 
to  this  circumstance  alone  as  my  excuse. 

My  hours  have  seldom  flowed  so  agreeably  as  they 

did   at    S ,  nor   perhaps  have   I  made  many  visits 

which  have  been  more  profitable  to  me  in  a  religious 

sense.     The  example  of  Mr. will,  I  hope,  stimulate 

me  to  a  faithful  preparation  for  the  sacred  office  to  which 
I  am  destined.  I  say  a  faithful  preparation,  because  I 
fear  I  am  apt  to  deceive  myself  with  respect  to  my 
present  pursuits,  and  to  think  I  am  only  laboring  for  the 
honor  of  God,  when  I  am  urging  literary  labors  to  a  de- 
gree inconsistent  with  duty  and  my  real  interests.     Mr. 

is  a  good  and  careful  pastor  ;  my  heart  has  seldom 

been  so  full  as  when  I  have  accompanied  him  to  the 
chambers  of  the  sick,  or  have  heard  his  affectionate  ad- 
dresses to  the  attentive  crowd,  which  fills  his  school- 
room on  Sunday  evening. — He  is  so  earnest,  and  yet 
so  sober,  so  wise,  and  yet  so  simple  !     You,  my   dear 

R ,  are  now  very  nearly  approaching  to  the  sacred 

oflice,  and  I  sincerely  pray  that  you  may  be  stimulated 


334  COMPLETE    WORKS 

to  follow  after  the  pattern  of  our  excellent  friend.  You 
may  have  Mr. 's  zeal,  but  you  will  need  his  learn- 
ing and  his  judgment  to  temper  it.  Remember,  that  it 
is  a  work  of  much  more  self-denial,  for  a  man  of  active 
habits  to  submit  to  a  course  of  patient  study,  than  to 
suffer  many  privations  for  Christ's  sake.  In  the  latter 
the  heart  is  warmly  interested :  the  other  is  the  slow 
and  unsatisfactory  labor  of  the  head,  tedious  in  its  pro- 
gress, and  uncertain  in  its  produce.  Yet  there  is  a 
pleasure,  great  and  indescribable  pleasure,  in  sanctified 
study  :  the  more  wearisome  the  toil,  the  sweeter  will  it 
be  to  those  who  sit  down  with  a  subdued  and  patient 
spirit,  content  to  undergo  much  tedium  and  fatigue,  for 
the  honor  of  God's  ministry.  Reading,  however  dry, 
soon  becomes  interesting,  if  we  pursue  it  with  a  resolute 
spirit  of  investigation,  and  a  determinate  purpose  of 
thoroughly  mastering  what  we  are  about.  You  cannot 
take  up  the  most  tiresome  book,  on  the  most  tiresome 
subject,  and  read  it  with  fixed  attention  for  an  hour,  but 
you  feel  a  desire  to  go  on  '  and  here  I  would  exhort  you, 
whatever  you  read,  read  it  accurately  and  thoroughly, 
and  never  to  pass  over  anything,  however  minute, 
which  you  do  not  quite  comprehend.  This  is  the  only 
way  to  become  really  learned,  and  to  make  your  studies 
satisfactory  and  productive.  If  I  were  capable  of  di- 
recting your  course  of  reading,  I  should  recommend  you 
to  peruse  Butler's  Analogy,  Warburton's  Divine  Lega- 
tion, Prideaux  and  Shuckford's  Connexions,  and  Milner's 
Church  History,  century  for  century,  along  with  Mos- 
heim's  Ecclesiastical  History.  The  latter  is  learned, 
concise,  clear,  and  written  in  good  scholastic  Latin. 
Study  the  Chronology  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  as 
a  mean  of  making  it  interesting,  trace  out  the  completion 
of  the  prophecies.  Read  your  Greek  Testament  with 
the  nicest  accuracy,  tracing  every  word  to  its  root,  and 
seeking  out  the  full  force  of  particular  expressions,  by 
reference  both  to  Parkhurst  and  Scapula.  The  deriva- 
tion of  words  will  throw  great  light  on  many  parts  of 
the  New  Testament :  thus,  if  we  know  that  the  word 
Siaxovog,  a  doacon,  comes  from  Sia  and  xovio,  to  bustle  about 
in  the  dust,  we  shall  have  a  fuller  notion  of  the  humility 
of  those  who  held  the  office  in  the  primitive  church.  In 
reading  the  Old  Testament,  wherever  you  find  a  pas- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  335 

sage  obscure,  turn  to  the  Septuagint,  which  will  often 
clear  up  a  place  better  than  fifty  commentators.  Thus, 
in  Joel,  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  called  '  a  day  of  gloominess, 
a  day  of  darkness,  and  of  clouds,  like  the  morning  spread  upon 
the  mountains,^  which  is  a  contradiction.  Looking  at  the 
Septuagint,  we  find  that  the  passage  is  mispointed,  and 
that  the  latter  metaphor  is  applied  to  the  people :  '  A 
people  great  and  strong,  like  the  morning  spread  upon  the 
mountains.'  The  Septuagint  is  very  easy  Greek,  quite 
as  much  so  as  the  Greek  Testament ;  and  a'  little  prac- 
tice of  this  kind  will  help  you  in  your  knowledge  of  the 
language,  and  make  you  a  good  critic.  I  perceive  your 
English  style  is  very  unpolished,  and  I  think  this  a  mat- 
ter of  great  moment.  I  should  recommend  you  to  read, 
and  imitate  as  nearly  as  you  can,  the  serious  papers  in 
the  eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator,  particularly  those 
on  the  Ubiquity  of  the  Deity.  Accustom  yourself  to 
write  down  your  thoughts,  and  to  polish  the  style  some- 
time after  composition,  when  you  have  forgotten  the  ex- 
pression. Aim  at  conciseness,  neatness,  and  clearness  ; 
never  make  use  of  fine  or  vulgar  words.  Avoid  every 
epithet  which  does  not  add  greatly  to  the  idea,  for  every 
addition  of  this  kind,  if  it  do  not  strengthen,  weakens 
the  sentiment ;  and  be  cautious  never  to  express  by  two 
words,  what  you  can  do  as  well  by  one  ;  a  multiplicity 
of  words  only  hides  the  sense,  just  as  a  superabun- 
dance of  clothes  does  the  shape.  This  much  for  studies. 
*         ♦         ♦         »         * 

I  recommend  you  to  pause,  and  consider  much  and  well 
on  the  subject  of  matrimony.  You  have  heard  my  sen- 
timents with  regard  to  a  rich  wife  ;  but  I  am  much  too 
young,  and  too  great  an  enthusiast,  to  be  even  a  tolera- 
ble counsellor  on  a  point  like  this.  You  must  think  for 
yourself,  and  consult  with  prudent  and  pious  people, 
whose  years  have  taught  them  the  wisdom  of  the  pres- 
ent world,  and  whose  experience  has  instructed  them  in 
that  of  the  world  to  come.  But  a  little  sober  thought  is 
worth  a  world  of  advice.  You  have,  however,  an  infalli- 
ble adviser,  and  to  his  directions  you  may  safely  look. 
To  him  I  commend  all  your  ways. 

I  have  one  observation  to  make,  which  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  in  me  ;  it  is,  that  you  fall  in  love  too  readily. 
I  have  no  notion  of  a  man's  having  a  certain  species  of^ 


336  COMPLETE    WORKS 

affection  for  two  women  at  once.  I  am  afraid  you  let 
your  admiration  outrun  your  judgment  in  the  outset, 
and  then  comes  the  denouement  and  its  attendant,  disap- 
pointment and  disgust.  Take  good  heed  you  do  not  do 
this  in  marriage  ;  for  if  you  do,  there  will  be  great  risk 
of  your  making  shipwreck  of  your  hopes.  Be  content 
to  learn  a  woman's  good  qualities  as  they  gradually 
reveal  themselves  ;  and  do  not  let  your  imagination 
adorn  her  with  virtues  and  charms  to  which  she  has  no 
pretension.  I  think  there  is  often  a  little  disappoint- 
ment after  marriage — our  angels  turn  out  to  be  mere 
Eves — but  the  true  way  of  avoiding,  or,  at  least,  lessen- 
ing this  inconvenience,  is  to  estimate  the  object  of  our 
affections  really  as  she  is,  without  deceiving  ourselves^ 
and  injuring  Aer,  by  elevating  her  above  her  sphere. 
This  is  the  way  to  be  happy  in  marriage  ;  for  upon  this 
plan  our  partners  will  be  continually  breaking  in  upon 
us,  and  delighting  us  with  some  new  discovery  of  excel- 
lence ;  while,  upon  the  other  plan,  we  shall  always  be 
finding  that  the  reality  falls  short  of  what  we  had  so 
fondly  and  so  foolishly  imagined. 

Be  very  sedulous  and  very  patient  in  your  studies. 
You  would  shudder  at  the  idea  of  obtruding  yourself  on 
the  sacred  office  in  a  condition  rather  to  disgrace  than 
to  adorn  it.  St.  Paul  is  earnest  in  admonishing  Timothy 
to  give  attention  to  reading :  and  that  holy  apostle  him- 
self quotes  from  several  of  the  best  authors  among  the 
Greeks.  His  style  is  also  very  elegant,  and  polished  on 
occasion,  //e,  therefore,  did  not  think  the  graces  of 
composition  beneath  his  attention,  as  some  foolish  and 
ignorant  preachers  of  the  present  day  are  apt  to  do.  I 
have  written  a  longer  letter  to  you  than  I  expected,  and 
I  must  now  therefore  say,  good-by.  I  am  very  affec- 
tionately yours.  H.  K.  WHITE 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  August  12th,  1806. 


DEAR  NEVILLE, 


I  CAN  but  just  manage  to  tell  you,  by  this  post,  what 
I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  learn,  even  at  the  expense 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  337 

of  seven-pence  for  an  empty  sheet,  that  Mr.  Catton  has 
given  me  an  exhibition,  which  makes  my  whole  income 
sixty  guineas  a  year.  My  last  term's  bill  was  131.  13s., 
and  I  had  11.  I2s.  to  receive  ;  but  the  expenses  of  this 
vacation  will  leave  me  bare  until  Christmas. 

I  have  the  pleasure  of  not  having  solicited  either  this 
or  any  other  of  the  favors  which  Mr.  Catton  has  so  lib- 
erally bestowed  upon  me  :  and  though  I  have  been  the 
possessor  of  this  exhibition  ever  since  March  last,  yet 
Mr.  Catton  did  not  hint  it  to  me  until  this  morning,  when 
he  gave  me  my  bill. 

I  have,  of  course,  signified  to  Mr.  Simeon,  that  I  shall 
have  no  need  whatever  of  the  stipend  which  I  have 
hitherto  received  through  his  hands.  He  was  extreme- 
ly kind  on  the  occasion,  and  indeed  his  conduct  towards 
me  has  ever  been  fatherly.  It  was  Mr.  *  *  *  who  allow- 
ed me  201.  per  annum,  and  Mr.  Simeon  added  10/.  He 
told  me,  that  my  conduct  gave  him  the  most  heartfelt 
joy  ;  that  I  was  so  generally  respected,  without  having 
made  any  compliances,  as  he  understood,  or  having,  in 
any  instance,  concealed  my  principles.  Indeed,  this  is 
a  praise  which  I  may  claim,  though  I  never  conceived 
that  it  was  at  all  an  object  of  praise.  I  have  always 
taken  some  pains  to  let  tiriose  around  me  know  my  reli- 
gious sentiments,  as  a  saving  of  trouble,  and  as  a  mark 
of  that  independence  of  opinion,  which,  I  think,  every 
one  ought  to  assert :  and  as  I  have  produced  my  opin- 
ions with  frankness  and  modesty,  and  supported  them 
(if  attacked)  with  coolness  and  candor,  I  have  never 
found  them  any  impediment  to  my  acquaintance  with 
any  person  whose  acquaintance  I  coveted. 


DEAR  A. 


TO  MR.  R.  W.  A. 

St.  John's,  Aug.  18t)),  1806. 


I  AM  glad  to  hear  of  your  voyages  and  travels  through 
various  regions,  and  various  seas,  both  of  this  island, 
and  its  little  suckling  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

Many  hair's-breadth  'scapes  and  perilous  adventures 
you  must  needs  have  had,  and  many  a  time,  on  the  ex- 
treme shores  of  the  south,  must  you  have  looked  up 
29 


338  COMPLETE    WORKS 

with  the  eye  of  intelligent  curiosity  to  see  whether  the 
same  moon  shone  there  as  in  the  pleasant,  but  now  far 
distant  groves  of  Colwick.  And  now,  my  very  wise  and 
travelled  friend,  seeing  that  your  head  is  yet  upon  your 
shoulders,  and  your  neck  in  its  right  natural  position, 
and  seeing  that,  after  all  the  changes  and  chances  of  a 
long  journey,  and  after  being  banged  from  post  to  pillar, 
and  from  pillar  to  post ;  seeing,  I  say,  that  after  all  this, 
you  are  safely  housed  once  more  under  your  paternal 
roof,  what  think  you,  if  you  were  to  indulge  your  mind 
as  much  as  you  have  done  your  eyes  and  gaping  mus- 
cles ?  A  few  trips  to  the  fountains  of  light  and  color,  or 
to  the  regions  of  the  good  lady  who  x^qoiv  aSaXoig  Suntt 
atpoQQov  novrov,  a  ramblc  down  the  Galaxy,  and  a  few  peeps 

on   the  UnCOnJined    confines   (^noTuov  unorfiov,  vnvov  avjivov,  (iiov  x»v 

Bionov)  of  infinite  space,  would  prove,  perhaps,  as  delecta- 
ble to  your  immaterial  part,  as  the  delicious  see-saw  of 
a  post  chaise  was  to  your  corporal ;  or,  if  these  ethere- 
al, aeronautical,  mathematical  volutations  should  dis- 
please you,  perhaps  it  would  not  be  amiss  to  saunter  a 
few  weeks  on  the  site  of  Troy,  or  to  lay  out  plans  of 
ancient  history  on  the  debatable  ground  of  the  Pelopon- 
nesians  and  Athenians.  There  is  one  Thucydides,  who 
lives  near,  who  will  tell  you  all  about  the  places  you 
visit,  and  the  great  events  connected  with  them  :  he  is  a 
sententious  old  fellow,  very  shrewd  in  his  remarks,  and 
speaks,  moreover,  very  excellent  Greek  at  your  service. 
I  know  not  whether  you  have  met  with  any  guide  in  the 
course  of  your  bodily  travels  who  can  be  compared  to 
him.  If  you  should  make  Rome  in  your  way,  either 
there  or  back,  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  an  old  friend  of  mine,  whose  name  is  Livy, 
who,  as  far  as  his  memory  extends,  will  amuse  you  with 
pretty  stories,  and  some  true  history.  There  is  another 
honest  fellow  enough,  to  whom  I  dare  not  recommend 
you,  he  is  so  very  crabbed  and  tart,  and  speaks  so  much 
in  epigrams  and  enigmas,  that  I  am  afraid  he  would 
teach  you  to  talk  as  unintelligibly  as  himself.  I  do  not 
mean  to  give  you  any  more  advice^  but  I  have  one  exhor- 
tation^ which  I  hope  you  will  take  in  good  part :  it  is  this, 
that  if  you  set  out  on  this  journey,  you  would  please  to 
proceed  to  its  6nd  :  for  I  have  been  acquainted  with  some 
young  men,  who  have  turned  their  faces  towards  Athens 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  839 

or  Rome,  and  trudged  on  manfillly  for  a  few  miles,  but 
when  they  had  travelled  till  they  grew  weary,  and 
worn  out  a  good  pair  of  shoes,  have  suddenly  become 
disheartened,  and  returned  without  any  recompense  for 
their  pains. 

And  now  let  me  assume  a  more  serious  strain,  and 
exhort  you  to  cultivate  your  mind  with  the  utmost 
assiduity.  You  are  at  a  critical  period  of  your  life,  and 
the  habits  which  you  now  form  will,  most  probably, 
adhere  to  you  through  life.  If  they  be  idle  habits,  I  am 
sure  they  will. 

But  even  the  cultivation  of  your  mind  is  of  minor  im- 
portance to  that  of  your  heart,  your  temper,  and  dispo- 
sition. Here  I  have  need  not  to  preach  but  to  learn.  You 
have  had  less  to  encounter  in  your  religious  progress 
than  /  have,  and  your  progress  has  been  therefore  great- 
er, greater  even  than  your  superior  faculties  would  have 
warranted.  I  have  had  to  fight  hard  with  vanity  at 
home,  and  applause  abroad  :  no  wonder  that  my  vessel 
has  been  tossed  about ;  but  greater  wonder  that  it  is  yet 
npon  the  waves.  I  exhort  you  to  pray  with  me,  (and  I 
entreat  you  to  pray  for  me,)  that  we  may  both  weather 
out  the  storm,  and  arrive  in  the  haven  of  sound  tran- 
quillity, even  on  this  side  the  grave. 

We  have  all  particular  reason  to  watch  and  pray,  lest 
self  too  much  predominate.  We  should  accustom  our- 
selves to  hold  our  own  comforts  and  conveniences  as 
subordinate  to  the  comforts  and  conveniences  of  others 
in  all  things  :  and  a  habit  thus  begun  in  little  matters, 
miofht  probably  be  extended  without  difficulty  to  those  of 
a  higher  nature. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.    John'a,   14th  Sept.   1806. 


MY  DEAR  BEN, 


I  CAN  scarcely  write  more  to  you  now  than  just  to 
calm  your  uneasiness  on  my  account.  I  am  perfectly 
well  again,  and  have  experienced  no  recurrence  of  the 
fit :  my  spirits  too  are  better,  and  I  read  very  moderate- 


340  COMPLETE    WORKS 

ly.  I  hope  that  God  will*be  pleased  to  spare  his  rebellious 
child  ;  this  stroke  has  brought  me  nearer  to  Him  :  whom 
indeed  have  I  for  my  comforter  but  Him  ? 

I  am  still  reading,  but  with  moderation,  as  I  have 
been  during  the  whole  vacation,  whatever  you  may 
persist  in  thinking. 

My  heart  turns  with  more  fondness  towards  the  con- 
solations of  religion  than  it  did,  and  in  some  degree  I 
have  found  consolation.  I  still,  however,  conceive  that 
it  is  my  duty  to  pursue  my  studies  temperately,  and  to 
fortify  myself  with  Christian  resignation  and  calmness 
for  the  worst.  I  am  much  wanting  in  these  virtues, 
and,  indeed,  in  all  Christian  virtues ;  but  I  know  how 
desirable  they  are,  and  I  long  for  them.  Pray  that  I 
may  be  strengthened  and  enlightened,  and  that  I  may 
be  enabled  to  go  where  duty  bids,  wherever  that  be. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  22d  Sept.  1806. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 


You  charge  me  with  an  accession  of  gallantry  of  late  ; 
I  plead  guilty.  I  really  began  to  think  of  marriage  (very 
prematurely,  you'll  say  ;)  but  if  I  experience  any  repeti- 
tion of  the  Jit,  I  shall  drop  the  idea  of  it  forever.  It 
would  be  folly  and  cruelty  to  involve  another  in  all  the 
horrors  of  such  a  calamity. 

I  thank  you  for  your  kind  exhortations  to  a  complete 
surrender  of  my  heart  to  God,  which  are  contained  in 
your  letter.  In  this  respect  I  have  betrayed  the  most 
deplorable  weakness  and  indecision  of  character.  I  know 
what  the  truth  is,  and  I  love  it ;  but  I  still  go  on  giving 
myself  half  to  God,  and  half  to  the  world,  as  if  1  expect- 
ed to  enjoy  the  comforts  of  religion  along  with  the  van- 
ities of  life.  If,  for  a  short  time,  I  keep  up  a  closer 
communion  with  God,  and  feel  my  whole  bosofn  burst- 
ing with  sorrow  and  tenderness  as  I  approach  the  foot- 
stool of  my  Saviour,  I  soon  relapse  into  indifference, 
worldly-mindedness,  and  sin  ;  my  devotions  become  list- 
less and  perfunctory  :  I  dote  on  the  world,  its  toys,  and 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  341 

its  corruptions,  and  am  mad  enough  to  be  willing  to 
sacrifice  the  happiness  of  eternity  to  the  deceitful  pleas- 
ures of  the  passing  moment.  My  heart  is  indeed  a 
lamentable  sink  of  loathsome  corruption  and  hypocrisy. 
In  consistency  with  my  professed  opinions,  I  am  often 
obliged  to  talk  on  subjects  of  which  I  know  but  little  in 
experience,  and  to  rank  myself  with  those  who  have 
felt,  what  I  only  approve  from  my  head,  and,  perhaps, 
esteem  from  my  heart.  I  often  start  with  horror  and 
disgust  from  myself,  when  I  consider  how  deeply  I  have 
imperceptibly  gone  into  this  species  of  simulation.  Yet 
I  think  my  love  for  the  Gospel,  and  its  professors,  is 
sincere  ;  only  I  am  insincere  in  suffering  persons  to  en- 
tertain a  high  opinion  of  me  as  a  child  of  God,  when 
indeed  I  am  en  alien  from  him.  On  looking  over  some 
private  memorandums,  which  were  written  at  various 
times  in  the  course  of  the  two  last  years,  I  beheld,  with 
inexpressible  anguish,  that  my  progress  has,  if  anything, 
been  retrograde.  I  am  still  as  dark,  still  as  cold,  still  as 
ignorant,  still  as  fond  of  the  world,  and  have  still  fewer 
desires  after  hoUness.  I  am  very,  very  dissatisfied  with 
myself,  and  yet  I  am  not  prompted  to  earnest  prayer. 
I  have  been  so  often  earnest,  and  always  have  fallen 
away,  that  I  go  to  God  without  hope,  without  faith. 
Yet  I  am  not  totally  without  hope  ;  I  know  God  will  have 
my  whole  heart,  and  I  know,  when  I  give  him  that,  I 
shall  experience  the  light  of  his  countenance  with  a  per- 
manency. I  pray  that  he  would  assist  my  weakness, 
and  grant  me  some  portion  of  his  grace,  in  order  that  I 
may  overcome  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  to 
which  I  have  long,  very  long,  been  a  willing,  though  an 
unhappy  slave.  Do  you  pray  earnestly  with  me,  and 
for  me,  in  these  respects ;  I  know  the  prayers  of  the 
faithful  avail  much  ;  and  when  you  consider  with  what 
great  temptations  I  am  surrounded,  and  how  very  little 
strength  I  have  wherewith  to  resist  them,  you  will  feel 
with  me  the  necessity  of  earnest  supplication,  and  fervent 
intercession,  lest  I  shoukl  be  lost,  and  cast  away  forever. 
I  shall  gladly  receive  your  spiritual  advice  and  direc- 
tions. I  have  gone  on  too  long  in  coldness  and  uncon- 
cern ;  who  knows  whether,  if  I  neglect  the  present  hour, 
the  day  of  salvation  may  not  be  gone  by  forever ! ! 
♦  ♦  #  ♦  » 
29* 


342  COMPLETE  WORKS 

TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 

St.  John's,  22d  Sept.  1806. 
MY  DEAR  CHARLESWORTH, 

Thank  you  for  taking  the  blame  of  our  neglected  cor- 
respondence on  your  own  shoulders,  I  thought  it  rested 
elsewhere.  Thrice  have  I  begun  to  write  to  you  ;  once 
in  Latin,  and  twice  in  English  ;  and  each  time  have  the 
fates  opposed  themselves  to  the  completion  of  my  design. 
But,  however,  pax  sitrebus^  we  are  naturally  disposed  to 
forgive,  because  we  are,  as  far  as  intention  goes,  mutu- 
al offenders. 

I  thank  you  for  your  invitation  to  Clapham,  which 
came  at  a  fortunate  juncture,  since  I  had  just  settled 
with  my  tutor  that  I  should  pay  a  visit  to  my  brother  in 
London  this  week.  I  shall  of  course  see  you  ;  and  shall 
be  happy  to  spend  a  few  days  with  you  at  Clapham  and 
to  rhapsodize  on  your  common.  It  gives  me  pleasure 
to  hear  you  are  settled,  and  I  give  you  many  hearty 
good  wishes  for  practice  and  prosperity.  I  hope  you 
Avill  soon  find  that  a  wife  is  a  very  necessary  article  of 
enjoyment  in  a  domesticated  state ;  for  how  indeed 
should  it  be  otherwise  ?  A  man  cannot  cook  his  dinner 
while  he  is  employed  in  earning  it.  Housekeepers  are 
complete  helluones  rex  familiaris,  and  not  only  pick  your 
pockets,  but  abuse  you  into  the  bargain.  While  a  wife, 
on  the  contrary,  both  cooks  your  dinner,  and  enlivens 
it  with  her  society  ;  receives  you  after  the  toils  of  the 
day  with  cheerfulness  aid  smiles,  and  is  not  only  the 
faithful  guardian  of  your  treasury,  but  the  soother  of 
your  cares,  and  the  alleviator  of  your  calamities.  Now, 
am  I  not  very  poetical  ?  But  on  such  a  subject  who 
would  not  be  poetical  ?  A  wife  ! — a  domestic  fire-side  ; 
— the  cheerful  assiduities  of  love  and  tenderness  !  It 
would  inspire  a  Dutch  burgomaster  !  and  if,  with  all  this 
in  your  grasp,  you  shall  still  choose  the  pulsare  terram  pe- 
de  libero^  still  avoid  the  irrupta  capula,  still  deem  it  a  mat- 
ter of  light  regard  to  be  an  object  of  affection  and  fond- 
ness to  an  amiable  and  sensible  woman,  why  then  you 
deserve  to  be  a  fellow  of  a  college  all  your  days  ;  to  be 
kicked  about  in  your  last  illness  by  a  saucy  and  careless 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  343 

bed-maker ;  and,  lastly,  to  be  put  in  the  ground  in  your 
college  chapel,  followed  only  by  the  man  who  is  to  be 
your  successor.  Why,  man,  I  dare  no  more  dream  that 
I  shall  ever  have  it  in  my  power  to  have  a  wife,  than 
that  I  shall  be  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Primate 
of  all  England.  A  suite  of  rooms  in  a  still  and  quiet  cor- 
ner of  old  St.  John's,  which  was  once  occupied  by  a  cra- 
zy monk,  or  by  one  of  the  translators  of  the  Bible  in  the 
days  of  good  King  James,  must  form  the  boundary  of 
my  ambition.  I  must  be  content  to  inhabit  walls  which 
never  echoed  with  a  female  voice,  to  be  buried  in  glooms 
which  were  never  cheered  with  a  female  smile.  It  is 
said,  indeed,  that  women  were  sometimes  permitted  to 
visit  St.  John's  when  it  was  a  monastery  of  White-Friars, 
in  order  to  be  present  at  particular  religious  ceremonies  ; 
but  the  good  monks  were  careful  to  sprinkle  holy  water 
wherever  their  profane  footsteps  had  carried  contagion 
and  pollution. 

It  is  well  that  you  are  free  from  the  restrictions  of 
monastic  austerity,  and  that,  while  I  sleep  under  the 
shadow  of  towers  and  lofty  walls,  and  the  safeguard  of 
a  vigilant  porter,  you  are  permitted  to  inhabit  your  own 
cottage,  under  your  own  guardianship,  and  to  listen  to 
the  sweet  accents  of  domestic  affection. 

Yes,  my  very  Platonic,  or  rather  Stoical  friend,  I  must 
see  you  safely  bound  in  the  matrimonial  noose,  and  then, ' 
like  a  confirmed  bachelor,  ten  years  hence,  I  shall  have 
the  satisfaction  of  pretending  to  laugh  at,  while,  in  my 
heart,  I  envy  you.  So  much  for  rhapsody.  I  am  coming 
to  London  for  relaxation's  sake,  and  shall  take  it  pretty 
freely  ;  that  is,  I  shall  seek  after  fine  sights — stare  at 
fine  people — be  cheerful  with  the  gay — foolish  with  the 
simple — and  leave  as  little  room  to  suspect  as  possible 
that  lam  (anything  of)  a  philosopher  and  mathematician. 
I  shall  probably  talk  a  little  Greek,  but  it  will  be  by 
stealth,  in  order  to  excite  no  suspicion. 

I  shall  be  in  town  on  Friday  or  Saturday.  I  am  in  a 
very  idle  mood,  and  have  written  you  a  very  idle  letter, 

for  which  I  entreat  your  pardon  :  and  I  am,  dear  C , 

very  sincerely  yours, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


344  COMPLETE    WORKS 

TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

(  FOUND  IN  HIS  POCKET  AFTER  HIS  DECEASE.) 

St.  John's  College,  Saturday,  Oct.  11th,  1806. 
DEAR  NEVILLE, 

I  AM  safely  arrived,  and  in  college,  but  my  illness  has 
increased  upon  me  much.  The  cough  continues,  and  is 
attended  with  a  good  deal  of  fever.  I  am  under  the  care 
of  Mr.  Farish,  and  entertain  very  little  apprehension 
about  the  cough ;  but  my  over-exertions  in  town  have 
reduced  me  to  a  state  of  much  debility  ;  and,  until  the 
cough  begone  I  cannot  be  permitted  to  take  any  strength- 
ening medicines.  This  places  me  in  an  awkward  predic- 
ament ;  but  I  think  I  perceive  a  degree  of  expectoration 
this  morning,  which  will  soon  relieve  me,  and  then  I  shall 
mend  apace. 

Under  these  circumstances,  I  must  not  expect  to  see 
you  here  at  present  :  when  I  am  a  little  recovered,  it 
will  be  a  pleasant  relaxation  to  me. 


Our  lectures  began  on  Friday,  but  I  do  not  attend  them 
until  I  am  better.  I  have  not  written  to  my  mother,  nor 
shall  I  while  I  remain  unwell.  You  will  tell  her,  as  a 
reason,  that  our  lectures  began  on  Friday.  I  know  she 
will  be  uneasy,  if  she  do  not  hear  from  me,  and  still 
more  so,  if  I  tell  her  I  am  ill. 

I  cannot  write  more  at  present,  than  that  I  am  your 
truly  affectionate  brother, 

H.  K.  WHITE, 


HIJVTS,  &c. 


Why  will  not  men  be  contented  with  appearing  what 
they  are  ?  As  sure  as  we  attempt  to  pass  for  what  we 
are  not,  we  make  ourselves  ridiculous.  With  religious 
professors,  this  ought  to  be  a  consideration  of  importance  ; 
for  when  we  assume  credit  for  what  we  do  not  possess, 
we  break  the  laws  of  God  in  more  ways  than  we  are 
aware  of:  vanity  and  deceit  are  both  implicated. 

Why  art  thou  so  disquieted,  0  my  soul,  and  why  so 
full  of  heaviness  ?  0  put  thy  trust  in  God  ;  for  I  will  yet 
thank  him  who  is  the  help  of  my  countenance,  and  my 
God.     Ps.  xlii. 

Domine  Jesu  !  in  te  speravi,  miserere  mei !  Ne  speme 
animum  miserrimi  peccatoris. 

The  love  of  Christ  is  the  only  source  from  whence  a 
Christian  can  hope  to  derive  spiritual  happiness  and 
peace.  Now  the  love  of  Christ  will  not  reside  in  the 
bosom  already  preoccupied  with  the  love  of  the  world, 
or  any  other  predominating  affection.  We  must  give  up 
everything  for  it,  and  we  know  it  deserves  that  distinc- 
tion ;  yet,  upon  this  principle,  unless  the  energy  of  Divine 
grace  were  what  it  is,  mighty  and  irresistible,  who  would 
be  saved  ? 

The  excellence  of  our  liturgy,  and  our  establishment, 
is  more  and  more  impressed  upon  my  mind  :  how  admi- 
rable do  her  confessions,  her  penitentiary  offerings,  her 
intercessions,  her  prayers,  suit  with  the  case  of  the 
Christian  !  It  is  a  sign  that  a  man's  heart  is  not  right 
with  God,  when  he  finds  fault  with  the  liturgy. 

Contempt  of  religion  is  distinct  from  unbelief:  unbelief 
may  be  the  result  of  proud  reasonings,  and  independent 
research  ;  but  contempt  of  the  Christian  doctrine  must 
proceed  from  profound  ignorance. 


346  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Lord,  give  me  a  heart  to  turn  all  knowledge  to  thy 
glory,  and  not  to  mine  :  keep  me  from  being  deluded 
with  the  lights  of  vain  philosophy  ;  keep  me  from  the 
pride  of  human  reason ;  let  me  not  think  my  own 
thoughts,  nor  dream  my  own  imaginations  ;  but,  in  all 
things  acting  under  the  good  guidance  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  may  I  live  in  all  simplicity,  humility,  and  single- 
ness of  heart,  unto  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  now  and  for 
ever  more.     Amen. 

[The  above  Prayer  was  prefixed  to  a  manual,  o*  memoranaum-book.] 


A   PRAYER. 

Almighty  Father,  at  the  close  of  another  day  I  kneel 
before  thee  in  supplication,  and  ere  I  compose  my  body 
to  sleep,  I  would  steal  a  few  moments  from  weariness, 
to  lift  up  my  thoughts  to  thy  perfections,  to  meditate  on 
thy  wonderful  dispensations,  and  to  make  my  request 
known  unto  thee. 

Although  the  hours  of  this  day  have  not  been  spent  in 
the  busy  haunts  of  society,  but  in  the  pursuit  of  needful 
and  godly  knowledge,  yet  I  am  conscious  that  my  thoughts 
and  actions  have  been  far  from  pure  ;  and  many  vain 
and  foolish  speculations,  many  sinful  thoughts  and  am- 
hitious  anticipations,  have  obtruded  them.selves  on  my 
mind.  I  know  that  I  have  felt  pleasure  in  what  I  ought 
to  have  abhorred,  and  that  I  have  not  had  thy  presence 
continually  in  mind  ;  so  that  my  ghostly  enemy  has  mix- 
ed poison  with  my  best  food,  and  sowed  tares  with  the 
good  seed  of  instruction.  Sometimes,  too,  the  world 
has  had  too  much  to  do  with  my  thoughts  ;  I  have  long- 
ed for  its  pleasures,  its  splendors,  its  honors,  and  have 
forgotten  that  I  am  a  poor  follower  of  Jesus  Christ, 
whose  inheritance  is  not  in  this  land,  but  in  the  fields 
above.  I  do  therefore  supplicate  and  beseech  thee,  Oh  ! 
thou  my  God  and  Father,  that  thou  wilt  not  only  forgive 
these  my  wanderings,  but  that  thou  wilt  chasten  my 
heart,  and  establish  my  affections,  so  that  they  may  not 
be  shaken  by  the  light  suggestions  of  the  tempter  Satan  ; 
and  since  I  am  of  myself  very  weak,  I  implore  thy  re- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  347 

Straining'  hand  upon  my  understanding,  that  I  may  not 
reason  in  the  pride  of  worldly  wisdom,  nor  flatter  myself 
on  my  attainments,  but  ever  hold  my  judgment  in  sub- 
ordination to  thy  word,  and  see  myself  as  what  I  am,  a 
helpless  dependant  on  thy  bounty.  If  a  spirit  of  indo- 
lence and  lassitude  have  at  times  crept  on  me,  I  pray  thy 
forgiveness  for  it  ;  and  if  I  have  felt  rather  inclined  to 
prosecute  studies  which  procure  respect  from  the  world, 
than  the  humble  knowledge  which  becomes  a  servant  of 
Christ,  do  thou  check  this  growing  propensity,  and  only 
bless  my  studies  so  far  as  they  conduce  to  thy  glory, 
and  as  thy  glory  is  their  chief  end.  My  heart,  0  Lord  ! 
is  but  too  fond  of  this  vain  and  deceitful  world,  and  I 
have  many  fears  lest  I  should  make  shipwreck  of  my 
hope  on  the  rocks  of  ambition  and  vanity.  Give  me,  I 
pray  thee,  thy  grace  to  repress  these  propensities  :  il- 
lumine more  completely  my  wandering  mind,  rectify  my 
understanding,  and  give  me  a  simple,  humble,  and  aifec- 
tionate  heart,  to  love  thee  and  thy  sheep  with  all  sin- 
cerity. As  I  increase  in  learning,  let  me  increase  in 
lowliness  of  spirit :  and  inasmuch  as  the  habits  of  studi- 
ous life,  unless  tempered  by  preventing  grace,  but  too 
much  tend  to  produce  formality  and  lifelessness  in  devo- 
tion, do  thou,  0  heavenly  Father,  preserve  me  from  all 
cold  and  speculative  views  of  thy  blessed  Gospel  ;  and 
while  with  regular  constancy  I  kneel  down  daily  before 
thee,  do  not  fail  to  light  up  the  fire  of  heavenly  love  in 
my  bosom,  and  to  draw  my  heart  heavenward  with  ear- 
nest longing  [to  thyself.] 

And  now,  0  Blessed  Redeemer  !  my  rock,  my  hope, 
and  only  sure  defence,  to  thee  do  I  cheerfully  commit 
both  my  soul  and  my  body.  If  thy  wise  Providence  see 
fit,  grant  that  I  may  rise  in  the  morning,  refreshed  with 
sleep,  and  with  a  spirit  of  cheerful  activity  for  the  duties 
of  the  day  :  but  whether  I  wake  here  or  in  eternity,  grant 
that  my  trust  in  thee  may  remain  sure,  and  my  hope  un- 
shaken.    Our  Father,  &:c, 

[This  prayer  was  discovered  amongst  some  dirty  loose  papers  of  H.  K.  White's,] 


348  COMPLETE    WORKS 


MEM.  September  22nd,  1806. 

On  running  over  the  pages  of  this  book,  I  am  constrain- 
ed to  observe,  with  sorrow  and  shame,  that  my  progress 
in  divine  hght  has  been  Uttle  or  none. 

I  have  made  a  few  conquests  over  my  corrupt  inclina- 
tions, but  my  heart  still  hankers  after  its  old  delights  ; 
still  lingers  half  willing,  half  unwilling,  in  the  ways  of 
worldly-mindedness. 

My  knowledge  of  divine  things  is  very  little  improved. 
I  have  read  less  of  the  Scriptures  than  I  did  last  year. 
In  reading  the  Fathers,  I  have  consulted  rather  the  pride 
of  my  heart  than  my  spiritual  good. 

I  now  turn  to  the  cause  of  these  evils,  and  I  find  that 
the  great  root,  the  main-spring,  is — love  of  the  world ; 
next  to  that,  pride  ;  next  to  that,  spiritual  sloth. 


REMARKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


IMITATIONS. 

The  sublimity  and  unaffected  beauty  of  the  sacred 
writings  are  in  no  instance  more  conspicuous,  than  in  the 
following  verses  of  the  xviiith  Psalm  : 

'  He  bowed  the  heavens  also  and  came  down  :  and 
darkness  was  under  his  feet. 

'  And  he  rode  upon  a  cherub  and  did  fly  :  yea,  he  did 
fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.' 

None  of  our  better  versions  have  been  able  to  preserve 
the  original  graces  of  these  verses.  That  wretched  one 
of  Thomas  Sternhold,  however,  (which,  to  the  disgrace 
and  manifest  detriment  of  religious  worship,  is  general- 
ly used,)  has  in  this  solitary  instance,  and  then  perhaps 
by  accident,  given  us  the  true  spirit  of  the  Psalmist,  and 
has  surpassed  not  only  Merrick,  but  even  the  classic 
Buchanan.     This  version  is  as  follows  : — 

*  The  Lord  descended  from  above. 

And  bowed  the  lieavens  high, 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 

The  darkness  of  the  sky. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  ^  349 

'  On  cherubs  and  on  cherubims 

Full  royally  he  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 

Came  flying  ail  abroad.' 

Dryden  honored  these  verses  with  very  high  commen- 
dation, and,  in  the  following  lines  of  his  Annas  Mirabilis, 
has  apparently  imitated  them,  in  preference  to  the  orig- 
inal : 

The  duke  less  numerous,  but  in  courage  more. 
On  wings  of  all  tlie  winds  to  combat  flies.' 

And  in  his  Ceyx  and  Alcyone,  from  Ovid,  he  has — 

*  And  now  sublime  she  rides  upon  the  wind.' 

which  is  probably  imitated,  as  well  as  most  of  the  fol- 
lowing, not  from  Sternhold,  but  the  original.     Thus  Pope, 

'  Not  God  alone  in  the  still  calm  we  find, 

He  mounts  the  storm  and  rides  upon  the  wind.' 

And  Addison — 

*  Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm.' 

The  unfortunate  Chatterton  has — 

'  And  rides  upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind.' 

And  Gray — 

<  With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air.' 

Few  poets  of  eminence  have  less  incurred  the  charge 
of  plagiarism  than  Milton  ;  yet  many  instances  might  be 
adduced  of  similarity  of  idea  and  language  with  the 
Scripture,  which  are  certainly  more  than  coincidences, 
and  some  of  these  I  shall,  in  a  future  number,  present 
to  your  readers.  Thus  the  present  passage  in  the 
Psalmist  was  in  all  probability  in  his  mind  when  he 
wrote — 


And  witli  mighty  wings  outspread, 


Dove-like  sat'st  broocUng  on  the  vast  abvss.' 

Par.  Lost,  1.  20.  B.  1. 

The  third  verse  of  the  civth  Psalm — 

'  He  maketh  the  clouds  his  chariot,  and  walketh  upon  tlie  wings  of  the  wind,' — 

is  evidently  taken  from  the  before-mentioned  verses  in 
the  xviiith  Psalm,  on  which  it  is  perhaps  an  improve- 
ment.    It   has  also  been  imitated   by  two  of  our  first 
30 


350  COMPLETE    WORKS 

poets, — Shakspeare  and  Thomson.     The  former  in  Ro- 
meo and  Juliet — 

*  Bestrides  the  lazy-paced  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air.' 

The  latter  in  Winter,  1.  199. 


Till  Nature's  King,  who  oft 


Amid  tempestuous  darkness  dwells  alone. 
And  on  the  wings  of  the  careering  winds 
Walks  dreadfully  serene.' 

As  these  imitations  have  not  before,  I  believe,  been 
noticed,  they  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  lovers  of  polite 
letters  ;  and  they  are  such  as  at  least  will  amuse  your 
readers  in  general.  If  the  sacred  writings  were  atten- 
tively perused,  we  should  find  innumerable  passages 
from  which  our  best  modern  poets  have  drawn  their 
most  admired  ideas  :  and  the  enumerations  of  these  in- 
stances would  perhaps  attract  the  attention  of  many  per- 
sons to  those  volumes,  which  they  now  perhaps  think 
to  contain  everything  tedious  and  disgusting,  but  which, 
on  the  contrary,  they  would  find  replete  with  interest, 
beauty,  and  true  sublimity. 


STERNHOLD  AND  HOPKINS. 


MR.  EDITOR, 

In  your  Mirror  for  July,  a  Mr.  William  Toone  has 
offered  a  few  observations  on  a  paper  of  mine,  in  a  pre- 
ceding number,  containing  remarks  on  the  versions  and 
imitations  of  the  9th  and  10th  verses  of  the  xviiith  Psalm, 
to  which  I  think  it  necessary  to  offer  a  few  words  by 
way  of  reply  ;  as  they  not  only  put  an  erroneous  con- 
struction on  certain  passages  of  that  paper,  but  are  other- 
wise open  to  material  objection. 

The  object  of  Mr.  Toone,  in  some  parts  of  his  obser- 
vations, appears  to  have  been  to  refute  something  which 
he  fancied  I  had  advanced,  tending  to  establish  the  gen- 
eral merit  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins's  translation  of  the 
Psalms  :  but  he  might  have  saved  himself  this  unneces- 
sary trouble,  as  I  have  decidedly  condemned  it  as  mere 


1 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  351 

doggerel,  still  preserved  in  our  churches,  to  the  detri- 
merTt  of  religion  ;  and  the  version  of  the  passage  in 
question  is  adduced  as  a  brilliant,  though  probably  ac- 
cidental, exception  to  the  general  character  of  the  work. 
What  necessity,  therefore,  your  correspondent  could  see 
for  '  hoping  that  I  should  think  with  him,  that  the  sooner  the  old 
version  of  the  Psalms  ivas  consigned  to  oblivion,  the  better  it 
would  be  for  rational  devotion,'*  I  am  perfectly  at  a  loss  to 
imagine. 

This  concluding  sentence  of  Mr.  Toone's  paper,  which 
I  consider  as  introduced  merely  by  way  of  rounding  the 
period,  and  making  a  graceful  exit,  needs  no  further 
animadversion.  I  shall  therefore  proceed  to  examine 
the  objections  of  the  '  worthy  clergyman  of  the  church 
of  England '  to  these  verses,  cited  by  your  correspon- 
dent, by  which  he  hopes  to  prove,  Dryden,  Knox,  and 
the  numerous  other  eminent  men  who  have  expressed 
their  admiration  thereof,  to  be  little  better  than  idiots. — 
The  first  is  this  : 

'  Cherubim  is  the  plural  for  Cherub ;  but  our  versioner 
by  adding  an  s  to  it,  has  rendered  them  both  plurals.' 
By  adding  an  s  to  what  ^  If  the  pronoun  it  refer  to 
cherubim,  as  according  to  the  construction  of  the  sen- 
tence it  really  does,  the  whole  objection  is  nonsense. — 
But  the  worthy  gentleman,  no  doubt,  meant  to  say,  that 
Sternhold  had  rendered  them  both  plurals  by  the  ad- 
dition of  an  s  to  cherub.  Even  in  this  sense,  however,  I 
conceive  the  charge  to  be  easily  obviated ;  for,  though 
cherubim  is  doubtless  usually  considered  as  the  plural 
of  cherub,  yet  the  two  words  are  frequently  so  used  in 
the  Old  Testament  as  to  prove,  that  they  were  often 
applied  to  separate  ranks  of  beings.  One  of  these,  which 
I  shall  cite,  will  dispel  all  doubt  on  the  subject. 

•  And  within  the  oracle  he  made  two  cheruhims  of  olive  tree,  each  ten  cubits 
high.'     1  KingSy  v.  23.  ch.  vi. 

The  other  objection  turns  upon  a  word  with  which  it 
is  not  necessary  for  me  to  interfere  ;  for  I  did  not  quote 
these  verses  as  instances  of  the  merit  of  Sternhold,  or 
his  version,  I  only  asserted  that  the  lines  which  I  then 
copied,  viz. 

*  The  Lord  descended  from  above,'  fitc. 


352  COMPLETE    WORKS 

were  truly  noble  and  sublime.  Whether,  therefore, 
Sternhold  wrote  all  the  winds  (as  asserted  by  your  corres- 
pondent, in  order  to  furnish  room  for  objection,)  or  mighty 
tvinds,  is  of  no  import.  But  if  this  really  be  a  subsequent 
alteration,  I  think  at  least  there  is  no  improvement ; 
for  when  we  conceive  the  winds  as  assembling  from  all 
quarters,  at  the  omnipotent  command  of  the  Deity,  and 
bearing  him  with  their  united  forces  from  the  heavens, 
we  have  a  more  sublime  image  than  when  we  see  him 
as  flying  merely  on  ^nighty  xcinds^  or  as  driving  his  team 
(or  troop)  of  angels  on  a  strong  tempest's  rapid  wing, 
with  most  amazing  swiftness,  as  elegantly  represented  by 
Brady  and   Tate.* 

I  diflfer  from  your  correspondent's  opinion,  that  these 
verses,  so  far  from  possessing  sublimity,  attract  the 
reader  merely  by  their  rumbling  sound  :  And  here  it  may 
not  be  amiss  to  observe,  that  the  true  sublime  does  not 
consist  of  high  sounding  words,  or  pompous  magnifi- 
cence ;  on  the  contrary,  it  most  frequently  appears  clad 
in  native  dignity  and  simplicity,  without  art,  and  with- 
out ornament. 

The  most  elegant  critic  of  antiquity,  Longinus,  in  his 
Treatise  on  the  Sublime,  adduces  the  following  passage 
from  the  Book  of  Genesis,  as  possessing  that  quality  in 
an  eminent  degree  : 

'  God  said.  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light : — Let  the  earth  he,  and 
earth  was.''  ■\ 

From  what  I  have  advanced  on  this  subject,  I  would 
not  have  it  inferred,  that  I  conceive  the  version  of 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  generally  speaking,  to  be  supe- 
rior to  that  of  Brady  and  Tate  ;  for,  on  the  contrary,  in 
almost  every  instance,  except  that  above  mentioned, 
the  latter  possesses  an  indubitable  right  to  preeminence. 
Our  language,  however,  cannot  yet  boast  one  version 
possessing  the  true  spirit  of  the  original ;  some  are 
beneath  contempt,  and  the  best  has  scarcely  attained 
mediocrity.     Your  correspondent  has  quoted  some  ver- 

*  The  chariot  of  the  king  of  kings, 

Which  active  troops  of  angels  drew. 

On  a  strong  tempest's  rapid  tvings, 
IVith  7nost  amazing  swiftness  flew. 

t  The  quotation  appears  to  have  been  made  from  memory,  and  not  correctly. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  353 

ses  from  Tate,  in  triumph,  as  comparatively  excellent ; 
but,  in  my  opinion,  they  are  also  instances  of  our  gen- 
eral failure  in  sacred  poetry  :  they  abound  in  those 
ambitiosa  ornamcnta  which  do  well  to  please  women  and 
children,  but  which  disgust  the  man  of  taste. 

To  the  imitations  already  noticed  of  this  passage,  per- 
mit me  to  add  the  following  : — 

*  But  various  Iris,  Jove's  commands  to  bear, 
Speeds  on  the  wings  of  winds  tlirough  liquid  air.' 

Pope's  Iliad,  B.  2. 

*  Miguel  cruzando  os  pelagos  do  vento.' 

Carlos  Reduzido,  Canto  I.,  by  Pedro  de  Azevedo  Tojal, 
an  ancient  Portuguese  poet  of  some  merit. 


REMARKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


WARTON. 

The  poems  of  Thomas  Warton  are  replete  with  a  sub- 
limity, and  richness  of  imagery,  which  seldom  fail  to  en- 
chant :  every  line  presents  new  beauties  of  idea,  aided 
by  all  the  magic  of  animated  diction.  From  the  inex- 
haustible stores  of  figurative  language,  majesty,  and  sub- 
limity, which  the  ancient  English  poets  afford,  he  has 
culled  some  of  the  richest  and  the  sweetest  flowers. 
But,  unfortunately,  in  thus  making  use  of  the  beauties 
of  other  writers,  he  has  been  too  unsparing ;  for  the 
greater  number  of  his  ideas  and  nervous  epithets  can- 
not, strictly  speaking,  be  called  his  own  ;  therefore,  how- 
ever we  may  be  charmed  by  the  grandeur  of  his  images, 
or  the  felicity  of  his  expression,  we  must  still  bear  in  our 
recollection,  that  we  cannot  with  justice  bestow  upon 
him  the  highest  eulogium  of  genius — that  of  originality. 

It  has,  with  much  justice,  been  observed,  that  Pope, 
and  his  imitators,  have  introduced  a  species  of  refine- 
ment into  our  language,  which  has  banished  that  nerve 
and  pathos  for  which  Milton  had  rendered  it  eminent. 
Harmonious  modulations,  and  unvarying  exactness  of 
measure,  totally  precluding  sublimity  and  fire,  have  re- 
duced our  fashionable  poetry  to  mere  sing-song.  But 
30^ 


354  COMPLETE    WORKS 

Thomas  Warton,  whose  taste  was  unvitiated  by  the 
frivolities  of  the  day,  immediately  saw  the  intrinsic 
worth  of  what  the  world  then  slighted.  He  saw  that 
the  ancient  poets  contained  a  fund  of  strength,  and  beau- 
ty of  imagery,  as  well  as  diction,  which,  in  the  hands  of 
genius,  would  shine  forth  with  redoubled  lustre.  En- 
tirely rejecting,  therefore,  modern  niceties,  he  extracted 
the  honied  sweets  from  these  beautiful,  though  neglect- 
ed flowers.  Every  grace  of  sentiment,  every  poetical 
term,  which  a  false  taste  had  rendered  obsolete,  was  by 
him  revived  and  made  to  grace  his  own  ideas  ;  and 
though  many  will  condemn  him  as  guilty  of  plagiarism, 
yet  few  will  be  able  to  withhold  the  tribute  of  their 
praise. 

The  peculiar  forte  of  Warton  seems  to  have  been  in 
the  sombre  descriptive.  The  wild  airy  flights  of  a  Spen- 
ser, the  '  chivalrous  feats  of  barons  bold,'  or  the  '  clois- 
ter'd  solitude,'  were  the  favorites  of  his  mind.  Of  this 
his  bent  he  informs  us  in  the  following  lines  :— 

Through  Pope's  soft  song,  though  all  the  graces  breatlie, 

And  happiest  art  adorns  his  attic  page, 

Yet  does  my  mind  with  sweeter  transport  glow. 

As  at  the  root  of  moss^  trunk  reclin'd, 

In  magic  Spenser's  wildly  warbled  song, 

I  see  deserted  Una  wander  wide 

Through  wasteful  solitudes  and  lurid  heaths, 

Weary,  forlorn,  than  where  the  fated  fair  * 

Upon  the  bosom  bright  of  silver  Thames, 

Launches  in  all  the  lustre  of  brocade. 

Amid  the  splendors  of  the  laughing  sun  ; 

The  gay  description  palls  upon  the  sense. 

And  coldly  strikes  the  mind  with  feeble  bliss. 

Pleasures  of  Melancholy. 

Warton's  mind  was  formed  for  the  grand  and  the  sub- 
lime. Were  his  imitations  less  verbal,  and  less  numer- 
ous, I  should  be  led  to  imagine  that  the  peculiar  beau- 
ties of  his  favorite  authors  had  sunk  so  impressively  into 
his  mind,  that  he  had  unwittingly  appropriated  them  as 
his  own  ;  but  they  are  in  general  such  as  to  preclude 
the  idea. 

To  the  metrical  and  other  intrinsic  ornaments  ot  style, 
he  appears  to  have  paid  due  attention.  If  we  meet  with 
an  uncouth  expression,  we  immediately  perceive  that  it 
is  peculiarly  appropriate,  and  that  no  other  term  could 

*  Belinda.    Vide  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  355 

have  been  made  use  of  with  so  happy  an  effect.  His 
poems  abound  with  alliterative  lines.  Indeed,  this  fig- 
ure seems  to  have  been  his  favorite  ;  and  he  studiously 
seeks  every  opportunity  to  introduce  it :  however,  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  that  his  'daisy-dappled  dales,' 
&c.  occur  too  frequently. 

The  poem  on  which  Warton's  fame  {as  a  poet)  princi- 
pally rests,  is,  the  'Pleasures  of  Melancholy,'  and  (not- 
withstanding the  perpetual  recurrence  of  ideas  which 
are  borrowed  from  other  poets)  there  are  few  pieces 
which  I  have  perused  with  more  exquisite  gratification. 
The  gloomy  tints  with  which  he  overcasts  his  descrip- 
tions ;  his  highly  figurative  language  ;  and,  above  all,  the 
antique  air  which  the  poem  wxars,  convey  the  most 
sublime  ideas  to  the  mind. 

Of  the  other  pieces  of  this  poet,  some  are  excellent, 
and  they  all  rise  above  mediocrity.  In  his  sonnets,  he 
has  succeeded  wonderfully ;  that  written  at  Winslade, 
and  the  one  to  the  river  Lodon,  are  peculiarly  beauti- 
ful, and  that  to  Mr.  Gray  is  most  elegantly  turned.  The 
'  Ode  on  the  Approach  of  Summer  '  is  replete  with 
genius  and  poetic  fire  ;  and  even  over  the  Birth-day  Odes, 
which  he  wrote  as  poet  laureat,  his  genius  has  cast 
energy  and  beauty.  His  humorous  pieces  and  satires 
abound  in  wit ;  and,  in  short,  taking  him  altogether,  he 
is  an  ornament  to  our  country  and  our  language,  and  it 
is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  profusion  with  which  he  has 
made  use  of  the  beauties  of  other  poets,  should  have 
given  room  for  censure. 

I  should  have  closed  my  short,  and,  I  fear,  jejune  es- 
say on  Warton,  but  that  I  wished  to  hint  to  your  truly 
elegant  and  acute  Stamford  correspondent,  Octavius 
Gilchrist,  (whose  future  remarks  on  Warton's  imitations 
I  await  v.dth  considerable  impatience,)  that  the  passage 
in  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy — 


or  ghostly  shapn. 


At  distance  seen,  invites,  with  heck''ning  hand. 
Thy  lonesome  steps,'' 

which  he  supposes  to  be  taken  from  the  following  in 
Comus — 

•  Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck'ning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names, ' 


356  COMPLETE    WORKS 

is   more   probably  taken   from  the   commencement  of 
Pope's  Elegy  on  an  unfortunate  Lady — 

*  What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight  shade 
Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade  1 ' 

The  original  idea  was  possibly  taken  from  Comus  by 
Pope,  from  whom  Warton,  to  all  appearance,  again  bor- 
rowed it- 
Were  the  similarity  of  the  passage  in  Gray  to  that  in 
Warton  less  striking  and  verbal,  I  should  be  inclined  to 
think  it  only  a  remarkable  coincidence  ;  for  Gray's  biog- 
raphers inform  us,  that  he  commenced  his  elegy  in  1742, 
and  that  it  was  completed  in  1744,  being  the  year  which 
he  particularly  devoted  to  the  muses,  though  he  did  not 
"-put  the  finishing  stroke  to  it '  until  1750.  The  Pleasures  of 
Melancholy  were  published  in  4to.  in  1747  ;  therefore 
Gray  might  take  his  third  stanza  from  Warton  ;  but  it  is 
rather  extraordinary  that  the  third  stanza  of  a  poem 
should  be  taken  from  another,  published  five  years  after 
that  poem  was  begun,  and  three  after  it  was  understood 
to  be  completed.  One  circumstance,  however,  seems 
to  render  the  supposition  of  its  being  a  plagiarism  some- 
what more- probable,  which  is,  that  the  stanza  in  ques- 
tion is  not  essential  to  the  connexion  of  the  succeeding 
and  antecedent  verses  ;  therefore  it  might  have  been 
added  by  Gray,  when  he  put  the  'finishing  stroke '  to  his 
piece  in  1750. 


CURSORY  REMARKS  ON  TRAGEDY. 

The  pleasure  which  is  derived  from  the  representa- 
tion of  an  affecting  tragedy,  has  often  been  the  subject 
of  inquiry  among  philosophical  critics,  as  a  singular  phe- 
nomenon.— That  the  mind  should  receive  gratification 
from  the  excitement  of  those  passions  which  are  in 
themselves  painful,  is  really  an  extraordinary  paradox, 
and  is  the  more  inexplicable,  since,  when  the  same 
means  are  employed  to  rouse  the  more  pleasing  affec- 
tions, no  adequate  effect  is  produced. 

In  order  to  solve  this  problem,  many  ingenious  hy- 
potheses have  been  invented.  The  Abbe  Du  Bos  tells 
us,  that  the  mind  has  such  a  natural  antipathy  to  a  s^ate 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  357 

of  listlessness  and  languor,  as  to  render  the  transition 
from  it  to  a  state  of  exertion,  even  though  by  rousing 
passions  in  themselves  painful,  as  in  the  instance  of 
tragedy,  a  positive  pleasure.  Monsieur  Fontenelle  has 
given  us  a  more  satisfactory  account.  He  tells  us  that 
pleasure  and  pain,  two  sentiments  so  different  in  them- 
selves, do  not  differ  so  much  in  their  cause  ; — that  pleas- 
ure, carried  too  far,  becomes  pain  ;  and  pain,  a  little 
moderated,  becomes  pleasure.  Hence  that  the  pleasure 
we  derive  from  tragedy  is  a  pleasing  sorrow,  a  modula- 
ted pain.  David  Hume,  who  has  also  written  upon  this 
subject,  unites  the  two  systems,  with  this  addition,  that 
the  painful  emotions  excited  by  the  representation  of 
melancholy  scenes,  are  further  tempered,  and  the  pleas- 
ure is  proportionably  heightened  by  the  eloquence  dis- 
played in  the  relation — the  art  shown  in  collecting  the 
pathetic  circumstances,  and  the  judgment  evinced  in 
their  happy  disposition. 

But  even  now  I  do  not  conceive  the  difficulty  to  be 
satisfactorily  done  away.  Admitting  the  postulatum 
which  the  Abbe  Du  Bos  assumes,  that  languor  is  so  dis- 
agreeable to  the  mind,  as  to  render  its  removal  positive 
pleasure,  to  be  true  ;  yet,  when  we  recollect,  as  Mr. 
Hume  has  before  observed,  that  were  the  same  objects 
of  distress  which  give  us  pleasure  in  tragedy  set  before 
our  eyes  in  reality,  though  they  would  effectually  re- 
move listlessness,  they  would  excite  the  most  unfeigned 
uneasiness,  we  shall  hesitate  in  applying  this  solution  in 
its  full  extent  to  the  present  subject.  M.  Fontenelle's 
reasoning  is  much  more  conclusive  ;  yet  I  think  he  errs 
egregiously  in  his  premises,  if  he  means  to  imply  that 
any  modulation  of  pain  is  pleasing,  because,  in  whatever 
degree  it  may  be,  it  is  still  pain,  and  remote  from  either 
ease  or  positive  pleasure  ;  and  if,  by  moderated  pain,  he 
means  any  uneasy  sensation  abated,  though  not  totally 
banished,  he  is  no  less  mistaken  in  the  application  of 
them  to  the  subject  before  us. — Pleasure  may  very  well 
be  conceived  to  be  painful,  when  carried  to  excess, 
because  it  there  becomes  exertion,  and  is  inconvenient. 
We  may  also  form  some  idea  of  a  pleasure  arising  from 
moderated  pain,  or  the  transition  from  the  disagreeable 
to  the  less  disagreeable  ;  but  this  cannot  in  any-wise  be 
applied  to  the  gratification  we  derive  from  a  tragedy,  for 


358  COMPLETE    WORKS 

there  no  superior  degree  of  pain  is  left  for  an  inferior. 
As  to  Mr.  Hume's  addition  of  the  pleasure  we  derive 
from  the  art  of  the  poet,  for  the  introduction  of  which  he 
has  written  his  whole  dissertation  on  tragedy,  it  merits 
little  consideration.  The  self-recollection  necessary  to 
render  this  art  a  source  of  gratification  must  weaken 
the  illusion  ;  and  whatever  weakens  the  illusion  dimin- 
ishes the  effect. 

In  these  systems  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  all  those 
passions  are  excited  which  are  represented  in  the  dra- 
ma. This  I  conceive  to  have  been  the  primary  cause 
of  error ;  for  to  me  it  seems  very  probable  that  the  only 
passion  or  affection  which  is  excited,  is  that  of  sympathy, 
which  partakes  of  the  pleasing  nature  of  pity  and  com- 
passion, and  includes  in  it  so  much  as  is  pleasing  of 
hope  and  apprehension,  joy  and  grief. 

The  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  afflictions  of  a  friend 
is  proverbial — every  person  has  felt,  and  wondered  why 
he  felt,  something  soothing  in  the  participation  of  the 
sorrows  of  those  dear  to  his  heart ;  and  he  might  with 
as  much  reason  have  questioned  why  he  was  delighted 
with  the  melancholy  scenes  of  tragedy.  Both  pleasures 
are  equally  singular ;  they  both  arise  from  the  same 
source.     Both  originate  in  sympathy. 

It  would  seem  natural  that  an  accidental  spectator  of 
a  cause  in  a  court  of  justice,  with  which  he  is  perfectly 
unacquainted,  would  remain  an  uninterested  auditor  of 
what  was  going  forward.  Experience  tells  us,  however, 
the  exact  contrary.  He  immediately,  even  before  he 
is  well  acquainted  with  the  merits  of  the  case,  espouses 
one  side  of  the  question,  to  which  he  uniformly  adheres, 
participates  in  all  its  advantages,  and  sympathizes  in  its 
success.  There  is  no  denying  that  the  interest  this  man 
takes  in  the  business  is  a  source  of  pleasure  to  him  ;  but 
we  cannot  suppose  one  of  the  parties  in  the  cause, 
though  his  interest  must  be  infinitely  more  lively,  to  feel 
an  equal  pleasure,  because  the  painful  passions  are  in 
him  really  roused,  while  in  the  other  sympathy  alone  is 
excited,  which  is  in  itself  pleasing.  It  is  pretty  much 
the  same  with  the  spectator  of  a  tragedy.  And,  if  the 
sympathy  is  the  more  pleasing,  it  is  because  the  actions 
are  so  much  the  more  calculated  to  entrap  the  attention, 
and  the  object  so  much  the  more  worthy.     The  pleasure 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  359 

is  heightened  also  in  both  instances  by  a  kind  of  intuitive 
recollection,  which  never  forsakes  the  spectator,  that 
no  bad  consequences  will  result  to  him  from  the  action 
he  is  surveying.  The  recollection  is  the  more  predomi- 
nant in  the  spectator  of  a  tragedy,  as  it  is  impossible  in 
any  case  totally  to  banish  from  his  memory  that  the 
scenes  are  fictitious  and  illusive.  In  real  hfe  we  always 
advert  to  futurity,  and  endeavour  to  draw  inferences  of 
the  probable  consequences  ;  but  the  moment  we  take  off 
our  minds  from  what  is  passing  on  the  stage  to  reason- 
ings thereupon,  the  illusion  is  dispelled,  and  it  again 
recurs  that  it  is  all  fiction. 

If  we  compare  the  degrees  of  pleasure  we  derive  from 
the  perusal  of  a  novel  and  the  representation  of  a  trage- 
dy, we  shall  observe  a  wonderful  disparity.  In  both  we 
feel  an  interest,  in  both  sympathy  is  excited.  But  in 
the  one,  things  are  merely  related  to  us  as  having  passed^ 
which  it  is  not  attempted  to  persuade  us  ever  did  in 
reality  happen,  and  from  which,  therefore,  we  never  can 
deceive  ourselves  into  the  idea  that  any  consequences 
whatever  will  result ;  in  the  other,  on  the  contrary,  the 
actions  themselves  pass  before  our  eyes  ;  we  are  not 
tempted  to  ask  ourselves  whether  they  did  ever  happen  ; 
we  see  them  happen,  we  are  the  witnesses  of  them  ;  and 
were  it  not  for  the  meliorating  circumstances  before 
mentioned,  the  sympathy  would  become  so  powerful  as 
to  be  in  the  highest  degree  painful. 

In  tragedy,  therefore,  everything  which  can  strength- 
en the  illusion  should  be  introduced,  for  there  are  a 
thousand  drawbacks  on  the  effect,  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  remove,  and  which  have  always  so  great  a  force, 
as  to  put  it  out  of  the  power  of  the  poet  to  excite  sym- 
pathy in  a  too  painful  degree.  Everything  that  is  im- 
probable, everything  which  is  out  of  the  common  course 
of  nature,  should,  for  this  reason,  be  avoided,  as  nothing 
will  so  forcibly  remind  the  spectator  of  the  unrealness 
of  the  illusion. 

It  is  a  mistaken  idea,  that  we  sympathize  sooner  with 
the  distresses  of  kings  and  illustrious  personages,  than 
with  those  of  common  life.  Men  are,  in  fact,  more  in- 
clined to  commiserate  the  sufferings  of  their  equals,  than 
of  those  whom  they  cannot  but  regard  rather  with  awe 
than  pity,  as  superior  beings,  and  to  take  an  interest  in 


360  COMPLETE    WORKS 

incidents  which  might  have  happened  to  themselves 
sooner  than  in  those  remote  from  their  own  rank  and 
habits.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  jEschylas  censures 
Euripides  for  introducing  his  kings  in  rags,  as  if  they 
were  more  to  be  compassionated  than  other  men ; 

JTqwtov  iiev  rovg  (iaoiXsvovrag  qaxiafinioxtov,  tv  avs?.Eeivoi 
Toig  avSQwTioig  (paivovr  tivai. 

Some  will,  perhaps,  imagine  that  it  is  in  the  power 
of  the  poet  to  excite,  our  sympathy  in  too  powerful  a 
degree,  because,  at  the  representation  of  certain  scenes, 
the  spectators  are  frequently  affected  so  as  to  make  them 
shriek  out  with  terror.  But  this  is  not  sympathy  ;  it  is 
horror,  it  is  disgust,  and  is  only  witnessed  Avhen  some 
act  is  committed  on  the  stage  so  cruel  and  bloody,  as  to 
make  it  impossible  to  contemplate  it,  even  in  idea,  with- 
out horror. 

Nee  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trucidet, 
Aut  humana  palam  coquat  exta  nefurius  Atreus. 

Hor.  Ars  Poet.  1.  185. 

It  is  for  this  reason,  also,  that  many  fine  German 
dramas  cannot  be  brought  on  the  English  stage,  such  as 
the  Robbers  of  Schiller,  and  the  Adelaide  of  Wulfingen, 
by  Kotzebue  :  they  are  too  horrible  to  be  read  without 
violent  emotions,  and  Horace  will  tell  you  what  an  im- 
mense difference  there  is  in  point  of  effect  between  a 
relation  and  a  representation. 

Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem, 

Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  subjecta  fidelibus,  et  qufe 

Ipse  sil)i  tradit  spectator.  Ars  Poet.  1.  180. 

I  shall  conclude  these  desultory  remarks,  strung  to- 
gether at  random,  without  order  or  connexion,  by  ob- 
serving what  little  foundation  there  is  for  the  general 
outcry  in  the  literary  world,  against  the  prevalence  of 
German  dramas  on  our  stage.  Did  they  not  possess 
uncommon  merit,  they  would  not  meet  with  such  gen- 
eral approbation.  Fashion  has  but  a  partial  influence, 
but  they  have  drawn  tears  from  an  audience  in  a  barn 
as  well  as  in  a  theatre  royal ;  they  have  been  welcomed 
with  plaudits  in  every  little  market-town  in  the  three 
kingdoms,  as  well  as  in  the  metropolis.  Nature  speaks 
but  one  language  ;  she  is  alike  intelligible  to  the  peasant 


OP    H.    K.     WHITE.  361 

and  the  man  of  letters,  the  tradesman  and  the  man  of 
fashion.  While  the  Muse  of  Germany  shall  continue  to 
produce  such  plays  as  the  Stranger  and  Lovers'  Vows,* 
who  will  not  rejoice  that  translation  is  able  to  naturalize 
her  efforts  in  our  language  ? 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(NO.  I.) 


-There  is  a  mood 


(I  sing  not  to  the  vacant  and  the  young) 

There  is  a  kindly  mood  of  Melancholy, 

That  wings  the  soul  and  points  her  to  the  skies. 

Dtib 


Philosophers  have  divested  themselves  of  their  natu- 
ral apathy,  and  poets  have  risen  above  themselves,  in 
descanting  on  the  pleasures  of  Melancholy.  There  is 
no  mind  so  gross,  no  understanding  so  uncultivated,  as 
to  be  incapable,  at  certain  moments,  and  amid  certain 
combinations,  of  feeling  that  sublime  influence  upon  the 
spirits  which  steals  the  soul  from  the  petty  anxieties  of . 
the  world, 

'  And  fits  it  to  hold  converse  with  the  gods.' 

I  must  confess,  if  such  there  be  who  never  felt  the  di- 
vine abstraction,  I  envy  them  not  their  insensibility. 
For  my  own  part,  it  is  from  the  indulgence  of  this  sooth- 
ing power  that  I  derive  the  most  exquisite  of  gratifica- 
tions ;  at  the  calm  hour  of  moonlight,  amid  all  the  sub- 
lime serenity,  the  dead  stillness  of  the  night ;  or  when 
the  howling  storm  rages  in  the  heavens,  the  rain  pelts 
on  my  roof,  and  the  winds  whistle  through  the  crannies 
of  my  apartment,  I  feel  the  divine  mood  of  melancholy 
upon  me  ;  I  imagine  myself  placed  upon  an  eminence, 
above  the  crowds  who  pant  below  in  the  dusty  tracks 
of  wealth  and  honor.     The  black  catalogue  of  crimes 

*  I  speak  of  these  plays  only  as  adapted  to  our  stage  by  the  elegant  pens  of  Mr. 
Thompson  and  Mrs.  Inchbald. 

31 


SG2  COMPLETE    WORKS 

and  of  vice  ;  the  sad  tissue  of  wretchedness  and  wo, 
passes  in  review  before  me,  and  I  look  down  upon  man 
with  an  eye  of  pity  and  commiseration.  Though  the 
scenes  which  I  survey  be  mournful,  and  the  ideas  they 
excite  equally  sombre  ;  though  the  tears  gush  as  I  con- 
template them,  and  my  heart  feels  heavy  with  the  sor- 
rowful emotions  which  they  inspire  ;  yet  are  they  not 
unaccompanied  with  sensations  of  the  purest  and  most 
ecstatic  bliss. 

It  is  to  the  spectator  alone  that  Melancholy  is  forbid- 
ding ;  in  herself  she  is  soft  and  interesting,  and  capable 
of  affording  pure  and  unalloyed  delight.  Ask  the  lover 
why  he  muses  by  the  side  of  the  purling  brook,  or  plun- 
ges into  the  deep  gloom  of  the  forest  ?  Ask  the  unfortu- 
nate why  he  seeks  the  still  shades  of  solitude  ?  or  the 
man  who  feels  the  pangs  of  disappointed  ambition,  why 
he  retires  into  the  silent  walks  of  seclusion  ?  and  he  will 
tell  you  that  he  derives  a  pleasure  therefrom,  which  no- 
thing else  can  impart.  It  is  the  delight  of  Melancholy  ; 
but  the  melancholy  of  these  beings  is  as  far  removed 
from  that  of  the  philosopher,  as  are  the  narrow  and  con- 
tracted complaints  of  selfishness  from  the  mournful  re- 
grets of  expansive  philanthropy  ;  as  are  the  desponding 
intervals  of  insanity  from  the  occasional  depressions  of 
benevolent  sensibility. 

The  man  who  has  attained  that  calm  equanimity  which 
qualifies  him  to  look  down  upon  the  petty  evils  of  life 
with  indifference  ;  who  can  so  far  conquer  the  weakness 
of  nature,  as  to  consider  the  sufferings  of  the  individual 
of  little  moment,  when  put  in  competition  with  the  wel- 
fare of  the  community,  is  alone  the  true  philosopher. 
His  melancholy  is  not  excited  by  the  retrospect  of  his 
own  misfortunes  ;  it  has  its  rise  from  the  contemplation 
of  the  miseries  incident  to  life,  and  the  evils  which  ob- 
trude themselves  upon  society,  and  interrupt  the  har- 
mony of  nature.  It  would  be  arrogating  too  much  merit 
to  myself,  to  assert  that  I  have  a  just  claim  to  the  title 
of  a  philosopher,  as  it  is  here  defined  ;  or  to  say  that  the 
speculations  of  my  melancholy  hours  are  equally  disin- 
terested :  be  this  as  it  may,  I  have  determined  to  present 
my  solitary  effusions  to  the  public ;  they  will  at  least 
have  the  merit  of  novelty  to  recommend  them,  and  may 
possibly,  in  some  measure,  be  instrumental  in  the  meli- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  363 

oration  of  the  human  heart,  or  the  correction  of  false 
prepossessions.  This  is  the  height  of  my  ambition  ;  this 
once  attained,  and  my  end  will  be  fully  accomplished. 
One  tiling  I  can  safely  promise,  though  far  from  being 
the  coinages  of  a  heart  at  ease,  they  will  contain  neither 
the  querulous  captiousness  of  misfortune,  nor  the  bitter 
taunts  of  misanthropy.  Society  is  a  chain  of  which  I  am 
merely  a  link :  all  men  are  my  associates  in  error,  and 
though  some  may  have  gone  farther  in  the  ways  of  guilt 
than  myself,  yet  it  is  not  in  me  to  sit  in  judgment  upon 
them  ;  it  is  mine  to  treat  them  rather  in  pity  than  in  anger, 
to  lament  their  crimes  and  to  weep  over  their  sufferings. 
As  these  papers  will  be  the  amusement  of  those  hours 
of  relaxation,  when  the  mind  recedes  from  the  vexations 
of  business,  and  sinks  into  itself  for  a  moment  of  solitary 
ease,  rather  than  the  efforts  of  literary  leisure,  the  reader 
will  not  expect  to  find  in  them  unusual  elegance  of  lan- 
guage, or  studied  propriety  of  style.  In  the  shoi^t  and 
necessary  intervals  of  cessation  from  the  anxieties  of  an 
irksome  employment,  one  finds  little  time  to  be  solicitous 
about  expression.  If,  therefore,  the  fervor  of  a  glowing 
mind  expresses  itself  in  too  warm  and  luxuriant  a  man- 
ner for  the  cold  ear  of  dull  propriety,  let  the  fastidious 
critic  find  a  selfish  pleasure  in  decrying  it.  To  criticism 
melancholy  is  indifferent.  If  learning  cannot  be  better 
employed  than  in  declaiming  against  the  defects,  while 
it  is  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  a  performance,  well 
may  we  exclaim  with  the  poet, 

i2  «v^£v?j5  ayvoia  005  a^auog  ri?  et 
Orav  ot  av  ov  exoig  ovrwg  o'  ovx  ayvosi. 

W. 


364  COMPLETE    WORKS 

MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

( NO.  II. ) 


Bat  ( well-a-day  !)  who  loves  the  Musea  now  ? 
Or  helpes  the  climber  of  the  sacred  hyll  ? 
Vone  leane  to  them  ;  but  strive  to  disalow 
All  heavenly  dewes  the  goddesses  distill. 

Win.  Brown's  She-yheard'a  Pipe.  Eg.  5. 


It  is  a  melancholy  reflection,  and  a  reflection  which 
often  sinks  heavily  on  my  soul,  that  the  Sons  of  Genius 
generally  seem  predestined  to  encounter  the  rudest 
storms  of  adversity,  to  struggle,  unnoticed,  with  poverty 
and  misfortune.  The  annals  of  the  world  present  us 
with  many  corroborations  of  this  remark  ;  and,  alas  !  who 
can  tell  how  many  unhappy  beings,  who  might  have 
shone  with  distinguished  lustre  among  the  stars  which 
illumine  our  hemisphere,  may  have  sunk  unknown  be- 
neath the  pressure  of  untoward  circumstances ;  who 
knows  how  many  may  have  shrunk,  with  all  the  exquisite 
sensibility  of  genius,  from  the  rude  and  riotous  discord 
of  the  world,  into  the  peaceful  slumbers  of  death. 
Among  the  number  of  those  whose  talents  might  have 
elevated  them  to  the  first  rank  of  eminence,  but  who 
have  been  overwhelmed  with  the  accumulated  ills  of 
poverty  and  misfortune,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  rank  a 
young  man  whom  I  once  accounted  it  my  greatest  hap- 
piness to  be  able  to  call  my  friend. 

Charles  Wanely  was  the  only  son  of  an  humble  vil- 
lage rector,  who  just  lived  to  give  him  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, and  then  left  him  unprovided  for  and  unprotected, 
to  struggle  through  the  world  as  well  as  he  could- 
With  a  heart  glowing  with  the  enthusiasm  of  poetry  and 
romance,  with  a  sensibility  the  most  exquisite,  and  with 
an  indignant  pride,  which  swelled  in  his  veins,  and  told 
him  he  was  a  man,  my  friend  found  himself  cast  upon 
the  wide  world  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  an  adventurer, 
without  fortune  and  without  connexion.  As  his  inde- 
pendent spirit  could  not  brook  the  idea  of  being  a  burden 
to  those  v/hom  his   father  had  taught  him  to   consider 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  365 

only  as  allied  by  blood,  and  not  by  affection,  he  looked 
about  him  for  a  situation  which  could  ensure  to  him,  by 
his  own  exertions,  an  honorable  competence.  It  was 
not  long"  before  such  a  situation  offered,  and  Charles 
precipitately  articled  himself  to  an  attorney,  without 
giving"  himself  time  to  consult  his  own  inclinations,  or 
the  disposition  of  his  master.  The  transition  from  Sopho- 
cles and  Euripides,  Theocritus  and  Ovid,  to  Finche  and 
Wood,  Coke  and  Wynne,  was  striking  and  difficult ;  but 
Charles  applied  himself  with  his  wonted  ardor  to  his 
new  study,  as  considering  it  not  only  his  interest,  but 
his  duty  so  to  do.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he 
discovered  that  he  disliked  the  law,  that  he  disliked  his 
situation,  and  that  he  despised  his  master.  The  fact 
was,  my  friend  had  many  mortifications  to  endure, 
which  his  haughty  soul  could  ill  brook.  The  attorney 
to  whom  he  was  articled,  was  one  of  those  narrow- 
minded  beings  who  consider  wealth  as  alone  entitled  to 
respect.  He  had  discovered  that  his  clerk  was  very 
poor,  and  very  destitute  of  friends,  and  thence  he  veyy 
naturally  concluded  that  he  might  insult  him  with  impu- 
nity. It  appears,  however,  that  he  was  mistaken  in  his 
calculations.  I  one  night  remarked  that  my  friend  was 
unusually  thoughtful.  I  ventured  to  ask  him  whether 
he  had  met  with  anything  particular  to  ruffle  his  spirits. 
He  looked  at  me  for  some  moments  significantly,  then, 
as  if  roused  to  fury  by  the  recollection — '  I  have,'  said 
he  vehemently,  '  I  have,  I  have.  He  has  insulted  me 
grossly,  and  I  will  bear  it  no  longer.'  He  now  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  with  visible  emotion. — Presently 
he  sat  down. — He  seemed  more  composed.  '  My  friend,' 
said  he,  '  1  have  endured  much  from  this  man.  I  con- 
ceived it  my  duty  to  forbear,  but  I  have  forborne  until 
forbearance  is  blamable,  and,  by  the  Almighty,  I  will 
never  again  endure  what  I  have  endured  this  day.  But 
not  only  this  man  ;  every  one  thinks  he  may  treat  me 
with  contumely,  because  I  am  poor  and  friendless.  But 
I  am  a  man,  and  will  no  longer  tamely  submit  to  be  the 
sport  of  fools,  and  the  foot-ball  of  caprice.  In  this  spot 
of  earth,  though  it  gave  me  birth,  I  can  never  taste  of 
ease.  Here  I  must  be  miserable.  The  principal  end  of 
man  is  to  arrive  at  happiness.  Here  I  can  never  attain 
it ;  and  here  therefore  I  will  no  longer  remain.  My  ob- 
31^ 


366  COMPLETE    WORKS 

ligations  to  the  rascal,  who  calls  himself  my  master,  are 
cancelled  by  his  abuse  of  the  authority  I  rashly  placed  in 
his  hands.  I  have  no  relations  to  bind  me  to  this  partic- 
ular place.'  The  tears  started  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 
'  I  have  no  tender  ties  to  bid  me  stay,  and  why  do  I 
stay  ?  The  world  is  all  before  me.  My  inclination 
leads  me  to  travel ;  I  will  pursue  that  inclination  ;  and, 
perhaps,  in  a  strange  land  I  may  find  that  repose  which 
is  denied  to  me  in  l;he  place  of  my  birth.  My  finances, 
it  is  true,  are  ill  able  to  support  the  expenses  of  travel- 
ling:  but  what  then — Goldsmith,  my  friend,'  with  rising 
enthusiasm,  '  Goldsmith  traversed  Europe  on  foot,  and  I 
am  as  hardy  as  Goldsmith.  Yes,  I  will  go,  and  perhaps, 
ere  long,  I  may  sit  me  down  on  some  towering  mountain, 
and  exclaim  with  him,  while  a  hundred  realms  lie  in 
perspective  before  me, 

*  Creation's  heir,  tlie  world,  the  world  is  mine.' 

It  was  in  vain  I  entreated  him  to  reflect  maturely,  ere 
he  took  so  bold  a  step  ;  he  was  deaf  to  my  importunities, 
and  the  next  morning  I  received  a  letter  informing  me 
of  his  departure.  He  was  observed  about  sun-rise,  sit- 
ting on  the  stile,  at  the  top  of  an  eminence  which  com- 
manded a  prospect  of  the  surrounding  country,  pensively 
looking  towards  the  village.  I  could  divine  his  emotions, 
on  thus  casting  probably  a  last  look  on  his  native  place. 
The  neat  white  parsonage-house,  with  the  honey-suckle 
mantling  on  its  wall,  I  knew  would  receive  his  last 
glance  ;  and  the  image  of  his  father  would  present  itself 
to  his  mind,  with  a  melancholy  pleasure,  as  he  was  thus 
hastening,  a  solitary  individual ^  to  plunge  himself  into 
the  crowds  of  the  world,  deprived  of  that  fostering  hand 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  his  support  and 
guide. 

From  this  period  Charles  Wanely  was  never  heard  of 

at  L ,   and,  as  his  few  relations  cared  little   about 

him,  in  a  short  time  it  was  almost  forgotten  that  such  a 
being  had  ever  been  in  existence. 

About  five  years  had  elapsed  from  this  period,  when 
my  occasions  led  me  to  the  continent.  I  will  confess  I 
was  not  without  a  romantic  hope,  that  I  might  again 
meet  with  my  lost  friend  ;  and  that  often,  v^iai  that  idea, 
I  scrutinized  the  features  of  the  passengers.     One  fine 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  367 

moonlight  night,  as  I  was  strolling  down  the  grand  Italian 
Strada  di  Toledo,  at  Naples,  1  observed  a  crowd  assem- 
bled round  a  man,   who,   with   impassioned   gestures, 
seemed  to  be  vehemently  declaiming  to  the  multitude. 
It  was  one  of  the  Improvisatori,  who  recite  extempore 
verses  in  the  streets  of  Naples,  for  what  money  they  can 
collect  from  the   hearers.     I  stopped   to  listen  to  the 
man's  metrical  romance,  and  had  remained  in  the  atti- 
tude of  attention  sometime,  when,   happening  to  turn 
round,  I  beheld  a  person  very  shabbily  dressed,  stead- 
fastly garjiing  at  me.     The  moon  shone  full  in  his  face. 
I  thought  his  feat\ires  were  familiar  to  me.     He  was 
pale  and  emaciated,  and  his  countenance  bore  marks  of 
the  deepest  dejection.     Yet,  amidst  all  these  changes,  I 
thought  I  recognised  Charles  Wanely.     I  stood  stupified 
with  surprise.    My  senses  nearly  failed  me.     On  recover- 
ing myself,  I  looked  again,  but  he  had  left  the  spot  the 
moment  he  found  himself  observed.     I  darted  through 
the  crowd,  and  ran  every  way  which  I  thought  he  could 
have  gone,  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose.     Nobody  knew 
him.     Nobody  had  even  seen  such  a  person.     The  two 
following  days  I  renewed  my  inquiries,  and  at  last  dis- 
covered the  lodgings  where  a  man  of  his  description  had 
resided.     But  he  had  left  Naples  the  morning  after  his 
form  had  struck  my  eyes.      I  found  he  gained  a  subsist- 
ence by  drawing  rude  figures  in  chalks  and  vending  them 
among  the  peasantry.     I  could  no  longer  doubt  it  was  my 
friend,  and  immediately  perceived  that  his  haughty  spirit 
could  not  bear  to  be  recognised  in  such  degrading  circum- 
stances, by  one  who  had  known  him  in  better  days.     La- 
menting the  misguided  notions  which  had  thus  again 
thrown  him  from  me,  I  left  Naples,  now  grown  hateful 
to  my  sight,   and  embarked   for  England.     It   is   now 
nearly  twenty  years  since  this  rencounter,  during  which 
period  he  has  not  been  heard  of;  and  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  this  unfortunate  young  man   has  found,  in 
some  remote  corner  of  the  continent,  an  obscure  and  an 
unlamented  grave. 

Thas,  those  talents  which  w^re  formed  to  do  honor 
to  human  nature,  and  to  the  country  which  gave  them 
birth,  have  been  nipped  in  the  bad  by  the  frosts  of  pov- 
erty and  scorn,  and  their  unhappy  possessor  lies  in  aa 


368  COMPLETE    WORKS 

unknown  and  nameless  tomb,  who  might,  under  happier 
circumstances,  have  risen  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
ambition  and  renown.  W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(NO.  III.) 


Few  know  that  elegance  of  soul  refined, 
Whose  soft  sensation  feels  a  quicker  joy 
From  melancholy's  scenes,  than  the  dull  pride 
Of  tasteless  splendor  and  magnificence 
Can  e'er  afford. 

Warton's  Melancholy 


In  one  of  my  midnight  rambles  down  the  side  of  the 
Trent,  the  river  which  waters  the  place  of  my  nativity, 
as  I  was  musing  on  the  various  evils  which  darken  the 
life  of  man,  and  which  have  their  rise  in  the  malevolence 
and  ill-nature  of  his  fellows,  the  sound  of  a  flute  from  an 
adjoining  copse  attracted  my  attention.  The  tune  it 
played  was  mournful,  yet  soothing.  It  was  suited  to 
the  solemnity  of  the  hour.  As  the  distant  notes  came 
wafted  at  intervals  on  my  ear,  now  with  gradual  swell, 
then  dying  away  on  the  silence  of  the  night,  I  felt  the 
tide  of  indignation  subside  within  me,  and  give  place  to 
the  solemn  calm  of  repose.  I  listened  for  sometime  in 
breathless  ravishment.  The  strain  ceased,  yet  the  sounds 
still  vibrated  on  my  heart,  and  the  visions  of  bliss  which 
they  excited,  still  glowed  on  my  imagination.  I  was 
then  standing  in  one  of  my  favorite  retreats.  It  was  a 
little  alcove,  overshadowed  with  willows,  and  a  mossy 
seat  at  the  back  invited  to  rest.  I  laid  myself  listlessly 
on  the  bank.  The  Trent  murnuired  softly  at  my  feet, 
and  the  willows  sighed  as  they  waved  over  my  head. 
It  was  the  holy  moment  of  repose,  and  I  soon  sunk  into 
a  deep  sleep.  The  operations  of  fancy  in  a  slumber, 
induced  by  a  combination  of  circumstances  so  powerful 
and  uncommon,  could  not  fail  to  be  wild  and  romantic  in 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  369 

the  extreme.  Methought  I  found  myself  in  an  extensive 
area,  filled  with  an  immense  concourse  of  people.  At 
one  end  was  a  throne  of  adamant,  on  which  sat  a  female, 
in  whose  aspect  I  immediately  recognised  a  divinity. 
She  was  clad  in  a  garb  of  azure,  on  her  forehead  she 
bore  a  sun,  whose  splendor  the  eyes  of  many  were  una- 
ble to  bear,  and  whose  rays  illumined  the  whole  space, 
and  penetrated  into  the  deepest  recesses  of  darkness. 
The  aspect  of  the  goddess  at  a  distance  was  forbidding, 
but  on  a  nearer  approach,  it  was  mild  and  engaging. 
Her  eyes  were  blue  and  piercing,  and  there  was  a  fasci- 
nation in  her  smile  which  charmed  as  if  by  enchantment. 
The  air  of  intelligence  which  beamed  in  her  look,  made 
the  beholder  shrink  into  himself  with  the  consciousness 
of  inferiority  ;  yet  the  affability  of  her  deportment,  and 
the  simplicity  and  gentleness  of  her  manners,  soon  reas- 
sured him,  while  the  bewitching  softness  which  she 
could  at  times  assume,  won  his  permanent  esteem.  ,  On 
inquiry  of  a  by-stander  who  it  was  that  sat  on  the  throne, 
and  what  was  the  occasion  of  so  uncommon  an  assembly, 
he  informed  me  that  it  was  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  who 
had  at  last  succeeded  in  regaining  the  dominion  of  the 
earth,  which  Folly  had  so  long  usurped.  That  she  sat 
there  in  her  judicial  capacity,  in  order  to  try  the  merits 
of  many  who  were  supposed  to  be  the  secret  emissaries 
of  Folly.  In  this  way  I  understood  Envy  and  Malevo- 
lence had  been  sentenced  to  perpetual  banishment, 
though  several  of  their  adherents  yet  remained  among 
men,  whose  minds  were  too  gross  to  be  irradiated  with 
the  light  of  wisdom.  One  trial  I  understood  was  just 
ended,  and  another  supposed  delinquent  was  about  to 
be  put  to  the  bar.  With  much  curiosity  I  hurried  for- 
wards to  survey  the  figure  which  now  approached.  She 
was  habited  in  black,  and  veiled  to  the  waist.  Her 
pace  was  solemn  and  majestic,  yet  in  every  movement 
was  a  winning  gracefulness.  As  she  approached  to  the 
bar,  I  got  a  nearer  view  of  her,  when,  what  was  my 
astonishment  to  recognise  in  her  the  person  of  my  favor- 
ite goddess.  Melancholy.  Amazed  that  she,  whom  I  had 
always  looked  upon  as  the  sister  and  companion  of  Wis- 
dom, should  be  brought  to  trial  as  an  emissary  and  an 
adherent  of  Folly,  I  waited  in  mute  impatience  for  the 
accusation   which  could  be  framed  against  her. — On 


370  COMPLETE    WORKS 

looking  towards  the  centre  of  the  area,  I  was  much 
surprised  to  see  a  bustling  little  Cit  of  my  acquaintance, 
who,  by  his  hemming  and  clearing,  I  concluded  was 
going  to  make  the  charge.  As  he  was  a  self-important 
little  fellow,  full  of  consequence  and  business,  and  total- 
ly incapable  of  all  the  finer  emotions  of  the  soul,  I  could 
not  conceive  what  ground  of  complaint  he  could  have 
against  Melancholy,  who,  I  was  persuaded,  would  never 
have  deigned  to  take  up  her  residence  for  a  moment  in 
/ii5  breast.  When  I  recollected,  however,  that  he  had 
some  sparks  of  ambition  in  his  composition,  and  that  he 
was  an  envious,  carping  little  mortal,  who  had  formed 
the  design  of  shouldering  himself  into  notice  by  decrying 
the  defects  of  others,  while  he  was  insensible  to  his  own, 
my  amazement  and  my  apprehensions  vanished,  as  I 
perceived  he  only  wanted  to  make  a  display  of  his  own 
talent,  in  doing  which  I  did  not  fear  his  making  himself 
sufficiently  ridiculous. 

After  a  good  deal  of  irrelevant  circumlocution,  he 
boldly  began  the  accusation  of  Melancholy.  I  shall  not 
dwell  upon  many  absurd  and  many  invidious  parts  of 
his  speech,  nor  upon  the  many  blunders  in  the  misappli- 
cation of  words,  such  as  ^  deduce^  for 'cZefraci,' and  oth- 
ers of  a  similar  nature,  which  my  poor  friend  committed 
in  the  course  of  his  harangue,  but  shall  only  dwell  upon 
the  material  parts  of  the  charge. 

He  represented  the  prisoner  as  the  offspring  of  Idleness 
and  Discontent,  who  was  at  all  times  a  sulky,  sullen,  and 
'  eminently  useless '  member  of  the  community,  and  not 
unfrequently  a  very  dangerous  one.  He  declared  it  to 
be  his  opinion,  that  in  case  she  were  to  be  suffered  to 
prevail,  mankind  would  soon  become  'too  idle  to  go,''  and 
would  all  lie  down^  and  perish  through  indolence,  or 
through  forgetting  that  sustenance  was  necessary  for 
the  preservation  of  existence  ;  and  concluded  with  paint- 
ing the  horrors  which  would  attend  such  a  depopulation 
of  the  earth,  in  such  colors  as  made  many  weak  minds 
regard  the  goddess  with  fear  and  abhorrence. 

Having  concluded,  the  accused  was  called  upon  for 
her  defence.  She  immediately,  with  a  graceful  gesture, 
lifted  up  the  veil  which  concealed  her  face,  and  discov- 
ered a  countenance  so  soft,  so  lovely,  and  so  sweetly 
expressive,  as  to  strike  the  beholders  with  involuntary 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  371 

admiration,  and  which,  at  one  glance  overturned  all  the 
flimsy  sophistry  of  my  poor  friend  the  citizen  ;  and  when 
the  silver  tones  of  her  voice  were  heard,  the  murmurs, 
which  until  then  had  continually  arisen  from  the  crowd 
were  hushed  to  a  dead  still,  and  the  whole  multitude 
stood  transfixed  in  breathless  attention.  As  near  as  I 
can  recollect,  these  were  the  words  in  which  she  ad- 
dressed herself  to  the  throne  of  wisdom. 

•  /  shall  not  deign  to  give  a  direct  answer  to  the  various  in- 
sinuations which  have  been  thrown  out  against  me  by  my  accuser. 
Let  it  suffice  that  I  declare  my  true  history,  in  opposi- 
tion to  that  which  has  been  so  artfully  fabricated  to  my 
disadvantage.  In  that  early  age  of  the  world,  when 
mankind  followed  the  peaceful  avocations  of  a  pastoral 
life  only,  and  contentment  and  harmony  reigned  in  every 
vale,  I  was  not  known  among  men  ;  but  when,  in  pro- 
cess of  time.  Ambition  and  Vice,  with  their  attendant 
evils,  were  sent  down  as  a  scourge  to  the  human  race, 
I  made  my  appearance.  I  am  the  offspring  of  Misfor- 
tune and  Virtue,  and  was  sent  by  Heaven  to  teach  my 
parents  how  to  support  their  afflictions  with  magnanimi- 
ty. As  I  grew  up,  I  became  the  intimate  friend  of  the 
wisest  among  men.  I  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Plato, 
and  other  illustrious  sages  of  antiquity,  and  was  then 
often  known  by  the  name  of  Philosophy,  though,  in 
present  times,  when  that  title  is  usurped  by  mere  mak- 
ers of  experiments,  and  inventors  of  blacking-cakes,  I 
am  only  known  by  the  appellation  of  Melancholy.  So 
far  from  being  of  a  discontented  disposition,  my  very 
essence  is  pious  and  resigned  contentment.  I  teach  my 
votaries  to  support  every  vicissitude  of  fortune  with 
calmness  and  fortitude.  It  is  mine  to  subdue  the  stormy 
propensities  of  passion  and  vice,  to  foster  and  encourage 
the  principles  of  benevolence  and  philanthropy,  and  to 
cherish  and  bring  to  perfection  the  seeds  of  virtue  and 
wisdom.  Though  feared  and  hated  by  those  who,  like 
my  accuser,  are  ignorant  of  my  nature,  I  am  courted 
and  cherished  by  all  the  truly  wise,  the  good,  and  the 
great ;  the  poet  woos  me  as  the  goddess  of  inspiration  ; 
the  true  philosopher  acknowledges  himself  indebted  to 
me  for  his  most  expansive  views  of  human  nature  ;  the 
good  man  owes  to  me  that  hatred  of  the  wrong  and  love 
of  the  right,  and  that  disdain  for  the  consequences  which 


S12  COMPLETE    WORKS 

may  result  from  the  performance  of  his  duties,  which 
keeps  him  good ;  and  the  religious  flies  to  me  for  the 
only  clear  and  unencumbered  view  of  the  attributes  and 
perfections  of  the  Deity.  So  far  from  being  idle,  my 
mind  is  ever  on  the  wing  in  the  regions  of  fancy,  or  that 
true  philosophy  which  opens  the  book  of  human  nature, 
and  raises  the  soul  above  the  evils  incident  to  life.  If  I 
am  useless,  in  the  same  degree  were  Plato  and  Socrates, 
Locke  and  Paley,  useless  ;  it  is  true  that  my  immediate 
influence  is  confined,  but  its  effects  are  disseminated  by 
means  of  literature  over  every  age  and  nation,  and  man- 
kind, in  every  generation,  and  in  every  clime,  may  look 
to  me  as  their  remote  illuminator,  the  original  spring  of 
the  principal  intellectual  benefits  they  possess.  But  as  i 
there  is  no  good  without  its  attendant  evil,  so  I  have  an 
elder  sister,  called  Phrensy,  for  whom  I  have  often  been 
mistaken,  who  sometimes  follows  close  on  my  steps,  and 
to  her  I  owe  much  of  the  obloquy  which  is  attached  to 
my  name  ;  though  the  puerile  accusation  which  has  just 
been  brought  against  me  turns  on  points  which  apply 
more  exclusively  to  myself. 

She  ceased,  and  a  dead  pause  ensued.  The  multitude 
seemed  struck  with  the  fascination  of  her  utterance  and 
gesture,  and  the  sounds  of  her  voice  still  seemed  to  vi- 
brate on  every  ear.  The  attention  of  the  assembly, 
however,  was  soon  recalled  to  the  accuser,  and  their  in- 
dignation at  his  baseness  rose  to  such  a  height  as  to 
threaten  general  tumult,  when  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom 
arose,  and,  waving  her  hand  for  silence,  beckoned  the 
prisoner  to  her,  placed  her  on  her  right  hand,  and,  with 
a  sweet  smile,  acknowledged  her  for  her  old  companion 
and  friend.  She  then  turned  to  the  accuser,  with  a 
frown  of  severity  so  terrible,  that  I  involuntarily  started 
with  terror  from  my  poor  misguided  friend,  and  with 
the  violence  of  the  start  I  awoke,  and,  instead  of  the 
throne  of  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  and  the  vast  assem- 
bly of  people,  beheld  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  peep- 
ing over  the  eastern  cloud  ;  and,  instead  of  the  loud  mur- 
murs of  the  incensed  multitude,  heard  nothing  but  the 
soft  gurgling  of  the  river  at  my  feet,  and  the  rustling 
wing  of  the  skylark,  who  was  now  beginning  his  first 
matin-song.  W. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  373 

MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(NO.  IV.) 


2iiQ7ioi]Oauiroq  iv^ioxov  ovSaiKxig  uv  aXXoig  ovrog  diUTTQa^ainvog.         IsoCR. 


The  world  has  often  heard  of  fortune-hunters,  legacy- 
hunters,  popularity-hunters,  and  hunters  of  various  de- 
scriptions— one  diversity,  however,  of  this  very  exten- 
sive species  has  hitherto  eluded  public  animadversion  ; 
I  allude  to  the  class  of  friend-hunters — men  who  make 
it  the  business  of  their  lives  to  acquire  friends,  in  the 
hope,  through  their  influence,  to  arrive  at  some  desira- 
ble point  of  ambitious  eminence.  Of  all  the  mortifica- 
tions and  anxieties  to  which  mankind  voluntarily  subject 
themselves,  from  the  expectation  of  future  benefit,  there 
are,  perhaps,  none  more  galling,  none  more  insupportable, 
than  those  attendant  on  friend-making. — Show  a  man 
that  you  court  his  society,  and  it  is  a  signal  for  him  to 
treat  you  with  neglect  and  contumely.  Humor  his  pas- 
sions, and  he  despises  you  as  a  sycophant.  Pay  implicit 
deference  to  his  opinions,  and  he  laughs  at  you  for  your 
folly.  In  all,  he  views  you  with  contempt,  as  the  crea- 
ture of  his  will,  and  the  slave  of  his  caprice.  I  remem- 
ber I  once  solicited  the  acquaintance  and  coveted  the 
friendship  of  one  man,  and,  thank  God,  I  can  yet  say 
(and  I  hope  on  my  death-bed  I  shall  be  able  to  say  the 
same)  of  only  one  man. 

Germanicus  was  a  character  of  considerable  eminence 
in  the  literary  world.  He  had  the  reputation  not  only 
of  an  enlightened  understanding  and  refined  taste,  but 
of  openness  of  heart  and  goodness  of  disposition.  His 
name  always  carried  with  it  that  weight  and  authority 
which  are  due  to  learning  and  genius  in  every  situation. 
His  manners  were  polished,  and  his  conversation  elegant. 
In  short,  he  possessed  every  qualification  which  could 
render  him  an  enviable  addition  to  the  circle  of  every 
man's  friends.  With  such  a  character,  as  I  was  then 
32 


374  COMPLETE    WORKS 

very  young",  I  could  not  fail  to  feel  an  ambition  of  becom- 
ing acquainted,  when  the  opportunity  offered,  and  in  a 
short  time  we  were  upon  terms  of  familiarity.  To  ripen 
this  familiarity  into  friendship,  as  far  as  the  most  awkward 
diffidence  would  permit,  was  my  strenuous  endeavour. 
If  his  opinions  contradicted  mine,  I  immediately,  with- 
out reasoning  on  the  subject,  conceded  the  point  to  him 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  must  be  right,  and  by  con- 
sequence that  I  must  be  wrong.  Did  he  utter  a  witti- 
cism, I  was  sure  to  laugh  ;  and  if  he  looked  grave,  though 
nobody  could  tell  why,  it  was  mine  to  groan.  By  thus 
conforming  myself  to  his  humor,  I  flattered  mj'-self  I  was 
making  some  progress  in  his  good  graces,  but  I  was  soon 
undeceived.  A  man  seldom  cares  much  for  that  which 
costs  him  no  pains  to  procure.  Whether  Germanicus 
found  me  a  troublesome  visiter,  or  whether  he  was  really 
displeased  with  something  I  had  unwittingly  said  or 
done,  certain  it  is,  that  when  I  met  him  one  day,  in 
company  with  persons  of  apparent  figure,  he  had  lost  all 
recollection  of  my  features.  I  called  upon  him,  but 
Germanicus  was  not  at  home.  Again  and  again  I  gave 
a  hesitating  knock  at  the  great  man's  door — all  was  to 
no  purpose.  He  was  still  not  at  home.  The  sly  mean- 
ing, however,  which  was  couched  in  the  sneer  of  the 
servant  the  last  time  that,  half  ashamed  of  my  errand,  I 
made  my  inquiries  at  his  house,  convinced  me  of  what  I 
ought  to  have  known  before,  that  Germanicus  was  at 
home  to  all  the  world  save  me.  I  believe,  with  all  my 
seeming  humility,  I  am  a  confounded  proud  fellow  at 
bottom ;  my  rage  at  this  discovery,  therefore,  may  be 
better  conceived  than  described.  Ten  thousand  curses 
did  I  imprecate  on  the  foolish  vanity  which  led  me  to 
solicit  the  friendship  of  my  superior,  and  again  and 
again  did  I  vow  down  eternal  vengeance  on  my  head,  if 
I  evermore  condescended  thus  to  court  the  acquaintance 
of  man.  To  this  resolution  I  believe  I  shall  ever  adhere. 
If  I  am  destined  to  make  any  progress  in  the  world,  it 
will  be  by  my  own  individual  exertions.  As  I  elbow  my 
way  through  the  crowded  vale  of  life,  I  will  never,  in  any 
emergency,  call  on  my  selfish  neighbour  for  assistance. 
If  my  strength  give  way  beneath  the  pressure  of  calami- 
ty, I  shall  sink  without  his  whine  of  hypocritical  condo- 


*  OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  375 

lence  ;  and  if  I  do  sink,  let  him  kick  me  into  a  ditch, 
and  go  about  his  business.  I  asked  not  his  assistance 
while  living,  it  will  be  of  no  service  to  me  when  dead. 

Believe  me,  reader,  whoever  thou  mayst  be,  there 
are  few  among  mortals  whose  friendship,  when  acquired, 
will  repay  thee  for  the  meanness  of  solicitation.  If  a 
man  voluntarily  holds  out  his  hand  to  thee,  take  it  with 
caution.  If  thou  find  him  honest,  be  not  backward  to 
receive  his  proffered  assistance,  and  be  anxious,  when 
occasion  shall  require,  to  yield  to  him  thine  own.  A 
real  friend  is  the  most  valuable  blessing  a  man  can 
possess,  and,  mark  me,  it  is  by  far  the  most  rare.  It  is 
a  black  swan.  But,  whatever  thou  mayst  do,  solicit  not 
friendship.  If  thou  art  young,  and  would  make  thy  way 
in  the  world,  bind  thyself  a  seven  years'  apprentice  to  a 
city  tallow-chandler,  and  thou  mayst  in  time  come  to 
be  lord  mayor.  Many  people  have  made  their  fortunes 
at  a  tailor's  board.  Periwig-makers  have  been  known 
to  buy  their  country-seats,  and  bellows-menders  have 
started  their  curricles  ;  but  seldom,  very  seldom,  has  the 
man  who  placed  his  dependence  on  the  friendship  of  his 
fellow-men  arrived  at  even  the  shadow  of  the  honors 
to  which,  through  that  medium,  he  aspired.  Nay,  even 
if  thou  shouldst  find  a  friend  ready  to  lend  thee  a  help- 
ing hand,  the  moment,  by  his  assistance,  thou  hast  gain- 
ed some  little  eminence,  he  will  be  the  first  to  hurl  thee 
down  to  thy  primitive,  and  now,  perhaps,  irremediable 
obscurity. 

Yet  I  see  no  more  reason  for  complaint  on  the  ground 
of  the  fallacy  of  human  friendship,  than  I  do  for  any 
other  ordinance  of  nature,  which  may  appear  to  run 
counter  to  our  happiness.  Man  is  naturally  a  selfish 
creature,  and  it  is  only  by  the  aid  of  philosophy  that  he 
can  so  far  conquer  the  defects  of  his  being,  as  to  be 
capable  of  disinterested  friendship.  Who,  then,  can 
expect  to  find  that  benign  disposition,  which  manifests 
itself  in  acts  of  disinterested  benevolence  and  spontane- 
ous atfection,  a  common  visiter  ?  Who  can  preach  phi- 
losophy to  the  mob  ? 

The  recluse,  who  does  not  easily  assimilate  with  the 
herd  of  mankind,  and  whose  manners  with  difficulty 
bend  to  the  peculiarites  of  others,  is  not  likely  to  have 


376  COMPLETE    WORKS  , 

many  real  friends.  His  enjoyments,  therefore,  must  be 
solitary,  lone,  and  melancholy.  His  only  friend  is  him- 
self. As  he  sits  immersed  in  revery  by  his  midnight 
fire,  and  hears  without  the  wild  gusts  of  wind  fitfully 
careering  over  the  plain,  he  listens  sadly  attentive ;  and 
as  the  varied  intonations  of  the  howling  blast  articulate 
to  his  enthusiastic  ear,  he  converses  with  the  spirits  of 
the  departed,  while,  between  each  dreary  pause  of  the 
storm,  he  holds  solitary  communion  with  himself.  Such 
is  the  social  intercourse  of  the  recluse  ;  yet  he  frequent- 
ly feels  the  soft  consolations  of  friendship.  A  heart 
formed  for  the  gentler  emotions  of  the  soul,  often  feels 
as  strong  an  interest  for  what  are  called  brutes^  as  most 
bipeds  affect  to  feel  for  each  other.  Montaigne  had 
his  cat ;  I  have  read  of  a  man  whose  only  friend  was  a 
large  spider  ;  and  Trenck,  in  his  dungeon,  would  sooner 
liave  lost  his  right  hand  than  the  poor  little  mouse, 
which,  grown  confident  with  indulgence,  used  to  beguile 
the  tedious  hours  of  imprisonment  with  its  gambols. 
For  my  own  part,  I  believe  my  dog,  who,  at  this  mo- 
ment, seated  on  his  hinder  legs,  is  wistfully  surveying 
me,  as  if  he  was  conscious  of  all  that  is  passing  in  my 
mind  : — my  dog,  I  say,  is  as  sincere,  and,  whatever  the 
world  may  say,  nearly  as  dear  a  friend,  as  any  I  possess  ; 
and,  when  I  shall  receive  that  summons  which  may  not 
now  be  far  distant,  he  will  whine  a  funeral  requiem  over 
my  grave,  more  piteously  than  all  the  hired  mourners  in 
Christendom.  Well,  well,  poor  Bob  has  had  a  kind 
master  of  me,  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  verily  believe 
there  are  few  things  on  this  earth  I  shall  leave  with 
more  regret  than  this  faithful  companion  of  the  happy 
hours  of  my  infancy. 


OP  H.  K.  WHITE.  377 

MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(  XO.  V. 


Un  Sonnet  sans  drfaut  vaut  seiil  un  long  poeme, 
Jilais  en  vain  mille  autturs  y  pen.-ent  aniver  ; 

A  peine  

pcut-vn  admirer  deux  dm  trois  entrt  mille. 

BOILSAU. 


There  is  no  species  of  poetry  which  is  better  adapt- 
ed to  the  taste  of  a  melancholy  man  than  the  sonnet. 
While  its  brevity  precludes  the  possibility  of  its  becom- 
ing- tiresome,  and  its  fall  and  expected  close  accords  well 
with  his  dejected,  and  perhaps  somewhat  languid  tone 
of  mind,  its  elegiac  delicacy  and  querimonious  plaintive- 
ness  come  in  pleasing  consonance  with  his  feelings. 

This  elegant  little  poem  has  met  with  a  peculiar  fate 
in  this  country :  half  a  century  ago  it  w^as  regarded  as 
utterly  repugnant  to  the  nature  of  our  language,  while 
at  present  it  is  the  popular  vehicle  of  the  most  admired 
sentiments  of  our  best  living  poets.  This  remarkable 
mutation  in  the  opinions  of  our  countrymen,  may,  how- 
ever, be  accounted  for  on  plain  and  common  principles. 
The  earlier  English  sonneteers  confined  themselves  in 
general  too  strictly  to  the  Italian  model,  as  well  in  the 
disposition  of  the  rhymes,  as  in  the  cast  of  the  ideas. 
A  sonnet  with  them  was  only  another  word  for  some 
metaphysical  conceit  or  clumsy  antithesis^  contained  in 
fourteen  harsh  lines,  full  of  obscure  inversions  and  ill- 
managed  expletives.  They  bound  themselves  down  to 
a  pattern  which  was  in  itself  faulty,  and  tKey  met  with 
the  common  fate  of  servile  imitators,  in  retiatining  all  the 
defects  of  their  original,  while  they  suffered  the  beauties 
to  escape  in  the  process.  Their  sonnets  are  like  copies 
of  a  bad  picture,  however  accurately  copiad,  they  are 
still  bad.  Our  contemporaries,  on  the  conii-ary,  have 
given  scope  to  their  genius  in  the  sonnet  without  re- 
straint, sometimes  even  growing  licentious  in  their  liber- 
ty, setting  at  defiance  those  rules  which  form  its  distin- 
guishing peculiarity,  and,  under  the  name  of  sonnet, 
32* 


378  COMPLETE    WORKS 

soaring  or  falling  into  ode  or  elegy.  Their  compositions, 
of  course,  are  impressed  with  all  those  excellences  which 
would  have  marked  their  respective  productions  in  any- 
similar  walk  of  poetry. 

It  has  never  been  disputed  that  the  sonnet  first  arriv- 
ed at  celebrity  in  the  Italian  :  a  language  which,  as  it 
abounds  in  a  musical  similarity  of  terminations,  is  more 
eminently  qualified  to  give  ease  and  eloquence  to  the 
legitimate  sonnet,  restricted  as  it  is  to  stated  and  fre- 
quently-recurring rhymes  of  the  same  class.  As  to  the 
inventors  of  this  little  structure  of  verse,  they  are  involv- 
ed in  impenetrable  obscurity.  Some  authors  have  as- 
cribed it  singly  to  Guitone  D'  Arezzo,  an  Italian  poet  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  but  they  have  no  sort  of  authori- 
ty to  adduce  in  support  of  their  assertions.  Arguing 
upon  probabilities,  with  some  slight  coincidental  corro- 
borations, I  should  be  inclined  to  maintain  that  its  ori- 
gin may  be  referred  to  an  earlier  period  ;  that  it  may  be 
looked  for  among  the  Proven9als,  who  left  scarcely  any 
combination  of  metrical  sounds  unattempted  ;  and  who, 
delighting  as  they  did  in  sound  and  jingle,  might  very 
possibly  strike  out  this  harmonious  stanza  of  fourteen 
lines.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Dante  and  Petrarch  were  the 
first  poets  who  rendered  it  popular,  and  to  Dante  and 
Petrarch  therefore  we  must  resort  for  its  required  rules. 

In  an  ingenious  paper  of  Dr.  Drake's  '  Literary  Hours,' 
a  book  which  I  have  read  again  and  again  with  undi- 
minished pleasure,  the  merits  of  the  various  English 
writers  in  this  delicate  mode  of  composition  are  appreci- 
ated with  much  justice  and  discrimination.  His  venera- 
tion for  Milton,  however,  has,  if  I  may  venture  to  oppose 
my  judgment  to  his,  carried  him  too  far  in  praise  of  his 
sonnets.  Those  to  the  Nightingale  and  to  Mr.  Lawrence 
are,  I  think,  alone  entitled  to  the  praise  of  mediocrity, 
and,  if  my  memory  fail  me  not,  my  opinion  is  sanctioned 
by  the  testimony  of  our  late  illustrious  biographer  of 
the  poets. 

The  sonnets  of  Drummond  are  characterized  as  ex- 
quisite. It  is  somewhat  strange,  if  this  description  be 
just,  that  they  should  so  long  have  sunk  into  utter  obliv- 
ion, to  be  revived  only  by  a  ^^^^ecies  of  black-letter  mama, 
which  prevailed  during  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  of  which  some  vestiges  yet  remain ;  the 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  379 

more  especially  as  Dr.  Johnson,  to  whom  they  could 
scarcely  be  unknown,  tolls  us,  that  '  The  fabric  of  the 
sonnet  has  never  succeeded  in  our  language.'  For  my 
own  part  I  can  say  nothing  of  them.  I  have  long  sought 
a  copy  of  Drummond's  works,  and  I  have  sought  it  in 
vain  ;  but  from  specimens  Avhich  I  have  casually  met 
with,  in  quotations,  I  am  forcibly  inclined  to  favor  the 
idea,  that,  as  they  possess  natural  and  pathetic  senti- 
ments, clothed  in  tolerably  harmonious  language,  they 
are  entitled  to  the  praise  which  has  been  so  liberally  be- 
stowed on  them. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Astrophel  and  Stella  consists  of  a 
number  of  sonnets,  which  have  been  unaccountably 
passed  over  by  Dr.  Drake,  and  all  our  other  critics  who 
have  written  on  this  subject.  Many  of  them  are  emi- 
nently beautiful.  The  works  of  this  neglected  poet  may 
occupy  a  future  number  of  my  lucubrations. 

Excepting  these  two  poets,  I  believe  there  is  scarcely 
a  writer  who  has  arrived  at  any  degree  of  excellence  in 
the  sonnet,  until  of  late  years,  when  our  vernacular 
bards  have  raised  it  to  a  degree  of  eminence  and  digni- 
ty among  the  various  kinds  of  poetical  composition, 
which  seems  almost  incompatible  with  its  very  circum- 
scribed limits. 

Passing  over  the  classical  compositions  of  Warton, 
which  are  formed  more  on  the  model  of  the  Greek  epi- 
gram, or  epitaph,  than  the  Italian  sonnet,  Mr.  Bowles 
and  Charlotte  Smith  are  the  first  modern  writers  who 
have  met  Avith  distinguished  success  in  the  sonnet. 
Those  of  the  former,  in  particular,  are  standards  of 
excellence  in  this  department.  To  much  natural  and 
accurate  description,  they  unite  a  strain  of  the  most 
exquisitely  tender  and  dehcate  sentiment ;  and,  with  a 
nervous  strength  of  diction,  and  a  wild  freedom  of  versi- 
fication, they  combine  an  euphonious  melody,  and  con- 
sonant cadence,  unequalled  in  the  English  language. 
While  they  possess,  however,  the  superior  merit  of  an 
original  style,  they  are  not  unfrequently  deformed  by 
instances  of  that  ambitious  singularity  which  is  but  too 
frequently  its  concomitant.  Of  these  the  introduction 
of  rhymes  long  since  obsolete,  is  not  the  least  striking. 
Though,  in  some  cases,  these  revivals  of  antiquated 
phrase  have  a  pleasing  effect,  yet  they  are  oftentimes 


380  COMPLETE    WORKS 

uncouth  and  repulsive.  Mr.  Bowles  has  almost  always 
thrown  aside  the  common  rules  of  the  sonnet  :  his  pieces 
have  no  more  claim  to  that  specific  denomination,  than 
that  they  are  confined  to  fourteen  lines.  How  far  this 
deviation  from  established  principle  is  justifiable,  may 
be  disputed  :  for  if,  on  the  one  hand,  it  be  alleged  that 
the  confinement  to  the  stated  repetition  of  rhymes,  so 
distant  and  frequent,  is  a  restraint  v/hich  is  not  compen- 
sated by  an  adequate  effect  on  the  other,  it  must  be 
conceded,  that  these  little  poems  are  no  longer  sonnets 
than  while  they  conform  to  the  rules  of  the  sonnet,  and 
that  the  moment  they  forsake  them,  they  ought  to  re- 
sign the  appellation. 

The  name  bears  evident  affinity  to  the  Italian  sonaire, 
'to  resound^ — 'sing  around,''  which  originated  in  the  Lat- 
in sonans, — sounding,  j^^gH'^^gt  ringing :  or,  indeed,  it  may 
come  immediately  from  the  French  sonncr,  to  sound,  or 
ring,  in  which  language,  it  is  observable,  we  first  meet 
with  the  word  sonnette,  where  it  signifies  a  little  bell,  and 
sonnettier,  a  maker  of  little  bells  ;  and  this  derivation 
affords  a  presumption,  almost  amounting  to  certainty, 
that  the  conjecture  before  advanced,  that  the  sonnet 
originated  with  the  Proven9als,  is  well  founded.  It  is 
somewhat  strange  that  these  contending  derivations 
have  not  been  before  observed,  as  they  tend  to  settle  a 
question,  which,  however  intrinsically  unimportant,  is 
curious  and  has  been  much  agitated. 

But,  wherever  the  name  originated,  it  evidently  bears 
relation  only  to  the  peculiarity  of  a^et  of  chiming  and 
jingling  terminations,  and  of  course  can  no  longer  be 
applied  with  propriety  where  that  peculiarity  is  not 
preserved. 

The  single  stanza  of  fourteen  lines,  properly  varied  in 
their  correspondent  closes,  is,  notwithstanding,  so  well 
adapted  for  the  expression  of  any  pathetic  sentiment, 
and  is  so  pleasing  and  satisfactory  to  the  ear  when  once 
accustomed  to  it,  that  our  poetry  would  suffer  a  material 
loss  were  it  to  be  disused  through  a  rigid  adherence  to 
mere  propriety  of  name.  At  the  same  time,  our  lan- 
guage does  not  supply  a  sufliciency  of  similar  terminations 
to  render  the  strict  observance  of  its  rules  at  all  easy,  or 
compatible  with  ease  or  elegance.  The  only  question, 
therefore,  is,  whether  the  nuisical  effect  produced  by  the 


OF    H.    K.     WHITE.  381 

adherence  to  this  difficult  structure  of  verse  overbalance 
the   restraint  it   imposes  on  the  poet,  and  in  case  we 
decide  in  the  negative,  whether  we  ought  to  preserve 
the  denomination  of  sonnet,  when  we  utterly  renounce 
the  very  peculiarities  which  procured  it  that  cognomen. 
In   the   present  enlightened  age,  I   think  it  will  not 
be  disputed  that  mere  jingle  and  sound  ought  invariably 
to  be  sacrificed  to  sentiment  and  expression.     Musical 
effect  is  a  very  subordinate  consideration  ;  it  is  the  gild- 
ing to  the  cornices  of  a  Vitruvian  edifice  ;  the  coloring 
to  a  shaded  design  of  Michael  Angelo.     In  its  place,  it 
adds  to  the  effect  of  the  whole  ;  but,  when  rendered  a 
principal  object  of  attention,  it  is  ridiculous  and  disgust- 
ing.    Rhyme  is  no  necessary   adjunct  of  true  poetry. 
Southey's  Thalaba  is  a  fine  poem,  with  no  rhyme,  and 
very  little  measure  or  metre  ;  and  the  production  which 
is  reduced  to  mere  prose,  by  being  deprived  of  its  jingle, 
could  never  possess,  in  any  state,  the  marks  of  inspiration. 
So  far,  therefore,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  is  advisable 
to  renounce  the  Italian  fabric  altogether.     We  have  al- 
ready sufficient  restrictions  laid  upon  us  by  the  metrical 
laws  of  our  native  tongue,  and  I  do  not  see  any  reason, 
out  of  a  blind  regard  for  precedent,  to  tie  ourselves  to  a 
difficult  structure  of  verse,  which  probably  originated 
with  the  Troubadours,  or  wandering  bards  of  France  and 
Normandy,  or  with  a  yet  ruder  race,  one  which  is  not 
productive  of  any  rational  effect,  and  which  only  pleases 
the  ear  by  frequent  repetition,  as  men  who  ha/e  once 
had  the  greatest  aversion  to  strong  wines  and  spirituous 
liquors,  are,  by  habit,  at  last  brought  to  regard  them  as 
delicacies. 

In  advancing  this  opinion,  I  am  aware  that  I  am  oppo- 
sing myself  to  the  declared  sentiments  of  many  individuals 
whom  I  greatly  respect  and  admire.  Miss  Seward  (and 
Miss  Seward  is  in  herself  a  host)  has,  both  theoretically 
and  practically,  defended  the  Italian  structure.  Mr. 
Capel  Lofft  has  likewise  favored  the  world  with  many 
sonnets,  in  which  he  shows  his  approval  of  the  legitimate 
model  by  his  adherence  to  its  rules,  and  many  of  the 
beautiful  poems  of  Mrs.  Lofft,  published  in  the  Monthly 
Mirror,  are  likewise  successfully  formed  by  those  rules. 
Much,  however,  as  I  admire  these  writers,  and  ample  as 
is  the  credence  I  give  to  their  critical  discrimination,  I 


382  COMPLETE    WORKS 

cannot,  on  mature  reflection,  subscribe  to  their  position 
of  the  expediency  of  adopting  this  structure  in  our 
poetry,  and  1  attribute  their  success  in  it  more  to  their 
individual  powers,  which  would  have  surmounted  much 
greater  difficulties,  than  to  the  adaptability  of  this  for- 
ei^-n  fabric  to  our  stubborn  and  intractable  language. 
^If  the  question,  however,  turn  only  on  the  propriety 
of  giving^  to  a  poem  a  name  which  must  be  acknow- 
ledged to  be  entirely  inappropriate,  and  to  which  it  can 
have  no  sort  of  claim,  I  must  confess  that  it  is  manifest- 
ly indefensible  ;  and  we  must  then  either  pitch  upon 
another  appellation  for  our  quatorzain,  or  banish  it  from 
our  language  ;  a  measure  which  every  lover  of  true 
poetry  must  sincerely  lament. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(NO.   VI.) 


Full  many  a  flow'r  is  bom  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Grat. 


Poetry  is  a  blossom  of  very  delicate  growth  ;  it  re- 
quires the  maturing  influence  of  vernal  suns,  and  every 
encouragement  of  culture  and  attention,  to  bring  it  to  its 
natural  perfection.  The  pursuits  of  the  mathematician, 
or  the  mechanical  genius,  are  such  as  require  rather 
strength  and  insensibility  of  mind,  than  that  exquisite 
and  finely-wrought  susceptibility,  which  invariably  marks 
the  temperament  of  the  true  poet ;  and  it  is  for  this 
reason,  that,  while  men  of  science  have  not  unfrequently 
arisen  from  the  abodes  of  poverty  and  labor,  very  few 
legitimate  children  of  the  Muse  have  ever  emerged  from 
the  shades  of  hereditary  obscurity. 

It  is  painful  to  reflect  how  many  a  bard  now  lies 
nameless  and  forgotten,  in  the  narrow  house,  who,  had 
he  been  born  to  competence  and  leisure,  might  have 
usurped  the  laurels  from  the  most  distinguished  person- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  SS3 

ages  in  the  temple  of  Fame.  The  very  consciousness 
of  merit  itself  often  acts  in  direct  opposition  to  a  stimu- 
lus to  exertion,  by  exciting  that  mournful  indignation 
at  supposititious  neglect,  which  urges  a  sullen  conceal- 
ment of  talent,  and  drives  its  possessor  to  that  misan- 
thropic discontent  which  preys  on  the  vitals,  and  soon 
produces  untimely  mortality.  A  sentiment  like  this  has, 
no  doubt,  often  actuated  beings,  who  attracted  notice, 
perhaps,  while  they  lived,  only  by  their  singularity,  and 
who  were  forgotten  almost  ere  their  parent  earth  had 
closed  over  their  heads, — beings  who  lived  but  to  mourn 
and  to  languish  for  what  they  were  never  destined  to 
enjoy,  and  whose  exalted  endowments  were  buried  with 
them  in  their  graves,  by  the  want  of  a  little  of  that  su- 
perfluity which  serves  to  pamper  the  debased  appetites 
of  the  enervated  sons  of  luxury  and  sloth. 

The  present  age,  however,  has  furnished  us  with  two 
illustrious  instances  of  poverty  bursting  through  ^tbe 
cloud  of  surrounding  impediments  into  the  full  blaze  of 
notoriety  and  eminence.  I  allude  to  the  two  Bloomfields, 
bards  who  may  challenge  a  comparison  with  the  most 
distinguished  favorites  of  the  Muse,  and  who  both  passed 
the  day-spring  of  life,  in  labor,  indigence,  and  obscurity. 

The  author  of  the  Farmer's  Boy  hath  already  received 
the  applause  he  justly  deserved.  It  yet  remains  for  the 
Essay  on  War  to  enjoy  all  the  distinction  it  so  richly 
merits,  as  well  from  its  sterling  worth,  as  from  the  cir- 
cumstance of  its  author.  Whether  the  present  age  will 
be  inclined  to  do  it  full  justice,  may  indeed  be  feared. 
Had  Mr.  Nathaniel  Bloomfield  made  his  appearance  in 
the  horizon  of  letters  prior  to  his  brother,  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  considered  as  a  meteor  of  uncom- 
mon attraction  ;  the  critics  would  have  admired,  because 
it  would  have  been  the  fashion  to  admire.  But  it  is  to 
be  apprehended  that  our  countrymen  become  inured  to 
phenomena ; — it  is  to  be  apprehended  that  the  frivolity 
of  the  age  cannot  endure  a  repetition  of  the  uncommon 
— that  it  will  no  longer  be  the  rage  to  patronise  indigent 
merit :  that  the  beau  monde  will  therefore  neglect,  and 
that,  by  a  necessary  consequence,  the  critics  will  sneer  !! 

Nevertheless,  sooner  or  later,  merit  will  meet  with 
its  reward  ;  and  though  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Bloomfield 
may  be  delayed,  he  niicst^  at  one  time  or  other,  receive 


384  COMPLETE    WORKS 

the  meed  due  to  its  deserts.  Posterity  will  judge  impar- 
tially ;  and  if  bold  and  vivid  images,  and  original  con- 
ceptions, luminously  displayed,  and  judiciously  apposed, 
have  any  claim  to  the  regard  of  mankind,  the  name  of 
Nathaniel  Bloomfield  will  not  be  without  its  high  and 
appropriate  honors. 

Rosseau  very  truly  observes,  that  with  whatev^er 
talent  a  man  may  be  born,  the  art  of  writing  is  not  easily 
obtained.  If  this  be  applicable  to  men  enjoying  every 
advantage  of  scholastic  initiation,  how  much  more  forci- 
bly must  it  apply  to  the  offspring  of  a  poor  village  tailor, 
untaught,  and  destitute  both  of  the  means  and  the  time 
necessary  for  the  cultivation  of  the  mind  !  If  the  art  of 
writing  be  of  difficult  attainment  to  those  who  make  it 
the  study  of  their  Uves,  what  must  it  be  to  him,  who, 
perhaps,  for  the  first  forty  years  of  his  life,  never  enter- 
tained a  thought  that  anything  he  could  write  would  be 
deemed  worthy  the  attention  of  the  pubUc  ! — whose  only 
time  for  rumination  was  such  as  a  sedentary  and  sickly 
employment  would  allow  ;  on  the  tailor's  board,  sur- 
rounded with  men,  perhaps,  of  depraved  and  rude  habits, 
and  impure  conversation  ! 

And  yet,  that  Mr.  N.  Bloomfield's  poems  display  acute- 
ness  of  remark,  and  delicacy  of  sentiment,  combined 
with  much  strength,  and  considerable  selection  of  diction, 
iew  will  deny.  The  Psean  to  Gunpowder  would  alone 
prove  both  his  power  of  language,  and  the  fertiUty  of 
his  imagination  ;  and  the  following  extract  presents  him 
to  us  in  the  still  higher  character  of  a  bold  and  vivid 
painter.     Describing  the  field  after  a  battle,  he  says, 

Now  here  and  there,  about  the  horrid  field, 

Striding  across  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

Stalks  up  a  man,  by  strength  superior. 

Or  skill  and  prowess  in  the  arduous  fight, 

Preserv'd  alive  : — fainting  he  looks  around ; 

Fearing  pursuit — not  caring  to  pursue. 

The  supplicating  voice  of  bitterest  moans, 

Contortions  of  excruciating  pain, 

The  shriek  of  torture,  and  the  groan  of  death. 

Surround  him  ; — and  as  Night  her  mantle  spreads. 

To  veil  the  horrors  of  the  mourning  field. 

With  cautious  step  shaping  his  devious  way, 

He  seeks  a  covert  where  to  hide  and  rest :  * 

At  every  leaf  that  rustics  in  the  breeze 

Starting,  he  grasps  his  sword ;  and  eveiy  nerve 

Is  ready  strauj'd,  for  combat  or  for  flight. 

P.  12.  Essay  on  War. 


OP    H.    K.    WHITE.  385 

If  Mr.  Bloomfield  had  written  nothing  besides  the 
Elegy  on  the  Enclosure  of  Honington  Green,  he  would 
have  had  a  right  to  be  considered  as  a  poet  of  no  mean 
excellence.  The  heart  which  can  read  passages  like 
the  following  without  a  sympathetic  emotion,  must  be 
dead  to  every  feeling  of  sensibility. 

STANZA   VI. 

The  proud  city's  gay  wealthy  train, 

Who  nought  hut  refinement  adore. 
May  wonder  to  hear  me  complain 

That  Honington  Green  is  no  more; 
But  if  to  the  church  you  e'er  went. 

If  you  knew  what  the  village  has  been, 
You  will  sympathize  while  I  lament 

The  enclosure  of  Honington  Green. 

VII. 

Tliat  no  more  upon  Honington  Green 

Dwells  the  matron  whom  most  I  revere. 
If  by  pert  Observation  unseen, 

I  e'en  now  could  indulge  a  fond  tear.  v 

Ere  her  bright  morn  of  life  was  o'ercast. 

When  my  senses  first  woke  to  the  scene, 
Some  short  happy  hours  she  had  past 

On  the  margin  of  Honington  Green. 

VIII. 

Her  parents  with  plenty  were  blest. 

And  num'rous  her  children,  and  young, 
Youth's  blossoms  her  cheek  yet  possest, 

And  melody  woke  when  she  sung : 
A  widow  so  youthful  to  leave, 

(  Early  clos'd  the  blest  days  he  had  seen,) 
My  father  was  laid  in  his  grave. 

In  the  church-yard  on  Honington  Green. 


XXI. 

Dear  to  me  was  the  wild  thorny  hill. 
And  dear  the  brown  heath's  sober  scene ; 

And  youth  shall  find  happiness  still. 
Though  he  rove  not  on  common  or  green. 


XXII. 

So  happily  flexile  man's  make. 

So  pliantly  docile  his  mind. 
Surrounding  impressions  we  take, 

^  And  bliss  in  each  circumstance  find. 
The  youths  of  a  more  polish 'd  age 

Shall  not  wish  these  rude  commons  to  see  } 
To  tlie  bird  that's  inur'd  to  the  cage. 

It  would  not  be  bliss  to  be  free. 

There  is  a  sweet  and  tender  melancholy  pervades  the 


386  COMPLETE    WORKS 

elegiac  ballad  efforts  of  Mr.  Bloomfield,  which  has  the 
most  indescribable  effects  on  the  heart.  Were  the  ver- 
sification a  Uttle  more  poUshed,  in  some  instances,  they 
would  be  read  with  unmixed  delight.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  will  cultivate  this  engaging  species  of  composi- 
tion, and,  (if  I  may  venture  to  throw  out  the  hint,)  if 
judgment  may  be  formed  from  the  poems  he  has  pub- 
lished, he  would  excel  in  sacred  poetry.  Most  heartily 
do  I  recommend  the  lyre  of  David  to  this  engaging  bard. 
Divine  topics  have  seldom  been  touched  upon  with  suc- 
cess by  our  modern  Muses  :  they  afford  a  field  in  which 
he  would  have  few  competitors,  and  it  is  a  field  worthy 
of  his  abilities.  W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(NO.  VII.*) 

If  the  situation  of  man,  in  the  present  life,  be  consid- 
ered in  all  its  relations  and  dependences,  a  striking  in- 
consistency will  be  apparent  to  a  very  cursory  observer. 
We  have  sure  warrant  for  believing  that  our  abode  here 
is  to  form  a  comparatively  insignificant  part  of  our  exis- 
tence, and  that  on  our  conduct  in  this  life  will  depend 
the  happiness  of  the  life  to  come  ;  yet  our  actions  daily 
give  the  lie  to  this  proposition,  inasmuch  as  we  comraron- 
ly  act  like  men  who  have  no  thought  but  for  the  present 
scene,  and  to  whom  the  grave  is  the  boundary  of  antici- 
pation. But  this  is  not  the  only  paradox  which  humani- 
ty furnishes  to  the  eye  of  a  thinking  man.  It  is  very 
generally  the  case,  that  we  spend  our  whole  lives  in  the 
pursuit  of  objects,  which  common  experience  informs  us 
are  not  capable  of  conferring  that  pleasure  and  satisfac- 
tion which  we  expect  from  their  enjoyment.  Our  views 
are  uniformly  directed  to  one  point : — happiness  in  what- 
ever garb  it  be  clad,  and  under  whatever  figure  shadow- 

*My  predecessor,  the  Spectator,  considering  that  the  seventh  part  of  our  time  is 
set  apart  for  religious  purposes,  devoted  every  seventh  lucubration  to  matters  con- 
nected with  Christianity,  and  the  severer  part  of  morals  :  I  trust  none  of  my  read- 
ers will  regret  that,  in  thia  instance,  I  follow  so  good  an  example. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  387 

ed,  is  the  great  aim  of  the  busy  multitudes,  whom  we 
behold  toiling  through  the  vale  of  life,  in  such  an  infin- 
ite diversity  of  occupation,  and  disparity  of  views.  But 
the  misfortune  is,  that  we  seek  for  Happiness  where  she 
is  not  to  be  found,  and  the  cause  of  wonder,  that  the 
experience  of  ages  should  not  have  guarded  us  against 
so  fatal  and  so  universal  an  error. 

It  would  be  an  amusing  speculation  to  consider  the 
various  points  after  which  our  fellow  mortals  are  inces- 
santly straining,  and  in  the  possession  of  which  they 
have  placed  that  imaginary  chief  good  which  we  are  all 
doomed  to  covet,  but  which,  perhaps,  none  of  us,  in  this 
sublunary  state,  can  attain.  At  present,  however,  we 
are  led  to  considerations  of  a  more  important  nature. 
We  turn  from  the  inconsistencies  observable  in  the 
prosecution  of  our  subordinate  pursuits,  from  the  partial 
foUies  of  individuals,  to  the  general  delusion  which  s^ems 
to  envelope  the  whole  human  race  : — the  delusion  under 
whose  influence  they  lose  sight  of  the  chief  end  of  their 
being,  and  cut  down  the  sphere  of  their  hopes  and  en- 
joyments to  a  few  rolling  years,  and  that,  too,  in  a  scene 
where  they  know  there  is  neither  perfect  fruition  nor 
permanent  delight. 

The  faculty  of  contemplating  mankind  in  the  abstract, 
apart  from  those  prepossessions  which,  both  by  nature 
and  the  power  of  habitual  associations,  would  intervene 
to  cloud  our  view,  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  a  life  of  vir- 
tue and  constant  meditation,  by  temperance,  and  purity 
of  thought.  Whenever  it  is  attained,  it  must  greatly 
tend  to  correct  our  motives — to  simplify  our  desires— 
and  to  excite  a  spirit  of  contentment  and  pious  resigna- 
tion. We  then,  at  length,  are  enabled  to  contemplate 
our  being,  in  all  its  bearings,  and  in  its  full  extent,  and 
the  result  is,  that  superiority  to  common  views,  and  in- 
difference to  the  things  of  this  life,  which  should  be  the 
fruit  of  all  true  philosophy,  and  which,  therefore,  are  the 
more  peculiar  fruits  of  that  system  of  philosophy  which 
is  called  the  Christian. 

To  a  mind  thus  sublimed,  the  great  mass  of  mankind 
will  appear  like  men  led  astray  by  the  workings  of  wild 
and  distempered  imaginations — visionaries  who  are  wan- 
dering after  the  phantoms  of  their  own  teeming  brains, 
and  their  anxious  solicitude  for  mere  matters  of  worldly 


388  COMPLETE    WORKS 

accommodation  and  ease  will  seem  more  like  the  effects 
of  insanity  than  of  prudent  foresight,  as  they  are  esteem- 
ed. To  the  awful  importance  of  futurity  he  will  observe 
them  utterly  insensible  ;  and  he  will  see  with  astonish- 
ment the  few  allotted  years  of  human  life  wasted  in  pro- 
viding" abundance  they  will  never  enjoy,  while  the  eter- 
nity they  are  placed  here  to  prepare  for,  scarcely  em- 
ploys a  moment's  consideration.  And  yet  the  mass  of 
these  poor  wanderers  in  the  ways  of  error,  have  the 
light  of  truth  shining  on  their  very  foreheads.  They 
have  the  revelation  of  Almighty  God  himself,  to  declare 
to  them  the  folly  of  worldly  cares,  and  the  necessity  for 
providing  for  a  future  state  of  existence.  They  know 
by  the  experience  of  every  preceding  generation,  that  a 
very  small  portion  of  joy  is  allowed  to  the  poor  sojourn- 
ers in  this  vale  of  tears,  and  that,  too,  imbittered  with 
much  pain  and  fear,  and  yet  every  one  is  willing  to  flat- 
ter himself  that  he  shall  fare  better  than  his  predecessor 
in  the  same  path,  and  that  happiness  will  smile  on  him 
which  hath  frowned  on  all  his  progenitors. 

Still  it  would  be  wrong  to  deny  the  human  race  all 
claim  to  temporal  felicity.  There  may  be  comparative, 
although  very  little  positive  happiness ; — whoever  is 
more  exempt  from  the  cares  of  the  world  and  the  ca- 
lamities incident  to  humanity — whoever  enjoys  more 
contentment  of  mind,  and  is  more  resigned  to  the  dispen- 
sations of  Divine  Providence — in  a  word,  whoever  pos- 
sesses more  of  the  true  spirit  of  Christianity  than  his 
neighbours,  is  comparatively  happy.  But  the  number  of 
these,  it  is  to  be  feared,  is  very  small.  Were  all  men 
equally  enlightened  by  the  illuminations  of  truth,  as 
emanating  from  the  spirit  of  Jehovah  himself,  they  would 
all  concur  in  the  pursuit  of  virtuous  ends  by  virtuous 
means — as  there  would  be  no  vice,  there  would  be  very 
little  infelicity.  Every  pain  would  be  met  with  forti- 
tude, every  afliiction  with  resignation.  We  should  then 
all  look  back  to  the  past  with  complacency,  and  to  the 
future  with  hope.  Even  this  unstable  state  of  being 
would  have  many  exquisite  enjoyments — the  principal 
of  which  would  be  the  anticipation  of  that  approaching 
state  of  beatitude  to  which  we  might  then  look  with  con- 
fidence, through  the  medium  of  that  atonement  of  which 
we  should  be  partakers,  and  our  acceptance,  by  virtue 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE. 

of  which,  would  be  sealed  by  that  purity  of  mind  of 
which  human  nature'  is,  of  itself  incapable.  But  it  is 
from  the  mistakes  and  miscalculations  of  mankind,  to 
which  their  fallen  natures  are  continually  prone,  that 
arises  that  flood  of  misery  which  overwhelms  the  whole 
race,  and  resounds  wherever  the  footsteps  of  man  have 
penetrated.  It  is  the  lamentable  error  of  placing  hap- 
piness in  vicious  indulgences,  or  thinking  to  pursue  it  by 
vicious  means.  It  is  the  blind  folly  of  sacrificing  the 
welfare  of  the  future  to  the  opportunity  of  immediate 
guilty  gratification,  which  destroys  the  harmony  of  so- 
ciety, and  poisons  the  peace,  not  only  of  the  immediate 
procreators  of  the  errors — not  only  of  the  identical  actors 
of  the  vices  themselves,  but  of  all  those  of  their  fellows 
who  fall  within  the  reach  of  their  influence  or  example, 
or  who  are  in  any-wise  connected  with  them  by  the  ties 
of  blood. 

I  would  therefore  exhort  you  earnestly — you  who' are 
yet  unskilled  in  the  ways  of  the  world — to  beware  on 
what  object  you  concentre  your  hopes.  Pleasures  may 
allure — pride  or  ambition  may  stimulate,  but  their  fruits 
are  hollow  and  deceitful,  and  they  aflford  no  sure,  no  solid 
satisfaction.  You  are  placed  on  the  earth  in  a  state  of 
probation — your  continuance  here  will  be,  at  the  longest, 
a  very  short  period,  and  when  you  are  called  from  hence 
you  plunge  into  an  eternity,  the  completion  of  which 
will  be  in  correspondence  to  your  past  life,  unutterably 
happy  or  inconceivably  miserable.  Your  fate  will  proba- 
bly depend  on  your  early  pursuits — it  will  be  these 
which  will  give  the  turn  to  your  character  and  to  your 
pleasures.  I  beseech  you,  therefore,  with  a  meek  and 
lowly  spirit,  to  read  the  pages  of  that  Book,  which  the 
wisest  and  best  of  men  have  acknowledged  to  be  the 
word  of  God.  You  will  there  And  a  rule  of  moral  con- 
duct, such  as  the  world  never  had  any  idea  of  before  its 
divulgation.  If  you  covet  earthly  happiness,  it  is  only 
to  be  found  in  the  path  you  will  find  there  laid  down, 
and  I  can  confidently  promise  you,  in  a  life  of  simplicity 
and  purity,  a  life  passed  in  accordance  with  the  divine 
word,  such  substantial  bliss,  such  unruflied  peace,  as  is 
nowhere  else  to  be  found.  AH  other  schemes  ol  earthly 
pleasure  are  fleeting  and  unsatisfactory.  They  all  entail 
upon  them  repentance  and  bitterness  of  thought.  This 
33* 


S9D  COMPLETE    WORKS 

alone  endiireth  forever— this  alone  embraces  equally  the 
present  and  the  future— this  alone  can  arm  a  man  against 
every  calamity — can  alone  shed  the  balm  of  peace  over 
that  scene  of  life  when  pleasures  have  lost  their  zest, 
and  the  mind  can  no  longer  look  forward  to  the  dark  and 
mysterious  future.  Above  all,  beware  of  the  ignusfatuus 
of  false  philosophy:  that  must  be  a  very  defective  system 
of  ethics  which  will  not  bear  a  man  through  the  most 
trying  stag-e  of  his  existence,  and  I  know  of  none  that 
win  do  it  but  the  Christian.  W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(XO.   VIII.) 


OtfTtg  J.oyovq  yaq  TtaqaxaraSijxriv  tog  Xa§<or 
E^ii  xft  adixog  eoriv,  rj  axQarrjg  ayay, 
lOwg  Si  Y  ^i-C'^^  rauifortqoi  xaxoi. 


Anaxandridxs  apud  Suidam 


Much  has  been  said  of  late  on  the  subject  of  inscriptive 
ivriting,  and  that,  in  my  opinion,  to  very  little  purpose. 
Dr.  Drake,  when  treating  on  this  topic,  is,  for  once,  in- 
conclusive ;  but  his  essay  does  credit  to  his  discernment, 
however  little  it  may  honor  him  as  a  promulgator  of  the 
laws  of  criticism  :  the  exquisite  specimens  it  contains 
prove  that  the  doctor  has  a  feeling  of  propriety  and 
general  excellence,  although  he  may  be  unhappy  in 
defining  them.  Boileau  says,  briefly,  '  Les  inscriptions 
doivent  etre  simples,  courtes,  et  familiares.'  We  have,  how- 
ever, many  examples  of  this  kind  of  writing  in  our 
language,  which  although  they  possess  none  of  these 
qualities,  are  esteemed  excellent.  Akenside's  classic 
imitations  are  not  at  all  simple,  nothing  sJiort,  and  the 
very  reverse  o( familiar,  yet  who  can  deny  that  they  are 
beautiful,  and  in  some  instances  appropriate  ?  South- 
ey's  inscriptions  are  noble  pieces  ;— for  the  opposite 
qualities   of  tenderness  and  dignity,  sweetness  of  im- 


OF    H.    K.     WHITE.  391 

agery  and  terseness  of  moral,  unrivalled  ;  they  are  per- 
haps wanting"  in  propriety,  and  (which  is  the  criterion) 
produce  a  much  better  effect  in  a  book,  than  they  would 
on  a  column  or  a  cenotaph.  There  is  a  certain  chaste 
and  majestic  gravity  expected  from  the  voice  of  tombs 
and  monuments,  which  probably  would  displease  in 
epitaphs  never  intended  to  be  engraved,  and  inscriptions 
for  obelisks  which  never  existed. 

When  a  man  visits  the  tomb  of  an  illustrious  charac- 
ter, a  spot  remarkable  for  some  memorable  deed,  or  a 
scene  connected  by  its  natural  sublimity  with  the  higher 
feelings  of  the  breast,  he  is  in  a  mood  only  for  the  ner- 
vous, the  concise,  and  the  impressive  ;  and  he  will  turn 
with  disgust  alike  from  the  puerile  conceits  of  the  epi- 
grammatist and  the  tedious  prolixity  of  the  herald.  It 
is  a  nice  thing  to  address  the  mind  in  the  workings  of 
generous  enthusiasm.  As  words  are  not  capable  of 
exciting  such  an  effervescence  of  the  sublimer  affections, 
so  they  can  do  little  towards  increasing  it.  Their  office 
is  rather  to  point  these  feelings  to  a  beneficial  purpose, 
and  by  some  noble  sentiment,  or  exalted  moral,  to  im- 
part to  the  mind  that  pleasure  which  results  frpm  warm 
emotions  when  connected  with  the  virtuous  and  the 
generous. 

In  the  composition  of  inscriptive  pieces,  great  atten- 
tion must  be  paid  to  local  and  topical  propriety.  The 
occasion,  and  the  place,  must  not  only  regulate  the 
tenor,  but  even  the  style  of  an  inscription  :  for  what,  in 
one  case,  would  be  proper  and  agreeable,  in  another 
would  be  impertinent  and  disgusting.  But  these  rules 
may  always  be  taken  for  granted,  that  an  inscription 
should  be  unaffected  and  free  from  conceits  ;  that  no 
sentiment  should  be  introduced  of  a  trite  or  hackneyed 
nature  ;  and  that  the  design  and  the  moral  to  be  incul- 
cated should  be  of  sufficient  importance  to  merit  the 
reader's  attention,  and  ensure  his  regard.  Who  would 
think  of  setting  a  stone  up  in  the  wilderness  to  tell  the 
traveller  what  he  knew  before,  or  what,  when  he  had 
learned  for  the  first  time,  was  not  worth  the  knowing  ? 
It  would  be  equally  absurd  to  call  aside  his  attention  to 
a  simile  or  an  epigrammatic  point.  Wit  on  a  mcmument, 
is  like  a  jest  from  a  judge,  or  a  philosopher  cutting  ca- 
pers.    It  is  a  severe  mortification  to  meet  with  flippancy 


S92  COMPLETE    WORKS 

where  we  looked  for  solemnity,  and  meretricious  ele- 
gance where  the  occasion  led  us  to  expect  the  unadorn- 
ed majesty  of  truth. 

That  branch  of  inscriptive  writing*  which  commemo- 
rates the  virtues  of  departed  worth,  or  points  out  the 
ash  ?s  of  men  who  yet  live  in  the  admiration  of  their 
posterity,  is,  of  all  others,  the  most  interesting,  and,  if 
properly  managed,  the  most  useful. 

It  is  not  enough  to  proclaim  to  the  observer  that  he  is 
drawing  near  to  the  relics  of  the  deceased  genius,— 
the  occasion  seems  to  provoke  a  few  reflections.  If 
these  be  natural^  they  will  be  in  unison  with  the  feelings 
of  the  reader,  and,  if  they  tend  where  they  ought  to 
tend,  they  will  leave  him  better  than  they  found  him. 
But  these  reflections  must  not  be  too  much  prolonged. 
They  must  rather  be  hints  than  dissertations.  It  is  suf- 
ficient to  start  the  idea,  and  the  imagination  of  the  read- 
er will  pursue  the  train  to  much  more  advantage  than 
the  writer  could  do  by  words. 

Panegyric  is  seldom  judicious  in  the  epitaphs  on  pub- 
lic characters^  for,  if  it  be  deserved,  it  cannot  need  publi- 
cation, and  if  it  be  exaggerated,  it  will  only  serve  to  ex- 
cite ridicule.  When  employed  in  memorizing  the  retired 
virtues  of  domestic  life,  and  qualities  which,  though  they 
only  served  to  cheer  the  little  circle  of  privacy,  still  de- 
served, from  their  unfrequency,  to  triumph,  at  least,  for 
a  while,  over  the  power  of  the  grave,  it  may  be  interest- 
ing and  salutary  in  its  effects.  To  this  purpose,  how- 
ever, it  is  rarely  employed.  An  epitaph-book  will  sel- 
dom supply  the  exigencies  of  character ;  and  men  of 
talents  are  not  always,  even  in  these  favored  times,  at 
hand  to  eternize  the  virtues  of  private  life. 

The  following  epitaph,  by  Mr.  Hayley,  is  inscribed  on 
a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Cowper,  in  the  church 
of  East  Dereham : 

'  Ye  who  with  warmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
Of  talents  dignified  by  sacred  zeal, 
Here  to  Devotion's  bard  devoutly  just, 
Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper's  dust ! 
England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame, 
Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  favorite  name 
Sense,  Fancy,  Wit,  conspire  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a  title  to  Affection's  praise  : 
His  highest  honors  to  the  heart  belong  ; 
His  virtues  formed  the  ^agic  of  his  song.' 


1 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE*  393 

'This  epitaph,'  says  a  periodical  critic,*  'is  simply 
elegant,  and  appropriately  just.'  I  regard  this  sentence 
as  peculiarly  unfortunate,  for  the  epitaph  seems  to  me 
to  be  elegant  without  simplicity,  and  just  without  propriety. 
No  one  will  deny  that  it  is  correctly  written,  and  that  it 
is  not  destitute  of  grace  ;  but  in  what  consists  its  sim- 
plicity I  am  at  a  loss  to  imagine.  The  initial  address  is 
labored  and  circumlocutory.  There  is  something  artifi- 
cial rather  than  otherwise  in  the  personification  of  En- 
gland, and  her  ranking  the  poet's  name  '  with  her  dear- 
est sons,'  instead  of  with  those  of  her  dearest  sons,  is  like 
ranking  poor  John  Doe  with  a  proper  bona  fide  son  of 
Adam,  in  a  writ  of  arrest.  Sense,  Fancy,  and  Wit, 
'raising  a  title,'  and  that  to  'Affection's  praise,'  is  not 
very  simple,  and  not  over  intelligible.  Again,  the  epi- 
taph is  just  because  it  is  strictly  true  ;  but  it  is  by  no 
means,  therefore,  appropriate.  Who  that  would  turn 
aside  to  visit  the  ashes  of  Cowper,  would  need  to  be  told 
that  England  ranks  him  with  her  favorite  sons,  and  that 
sense,  fancy,  and  wit,  were  not  his  greatest  honors,  for 
that  his  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  song  ;  or  who, 
hearing  this,  would  be  the  better  for  the  information  ? 
Had  Mr.  Hayley  been  employed  in  the  monumental 
praises  of  a  private  man,  this  might  have  been  excusa- 
ble, but  speaking  of  such  a  man  as  Cowper,  it  is  idle. 
This  epitaph  is  not  appropriate,  therefore,  and  we  have 
shown  that  it  is  not  remarkable  for  simplicity.  Perhaps 
the  respectable  critics  themselves  may  not  feel  inclined 
to  dispute  this  point  very  tenaciously.  Epithets  are 
very  convenient  little  things  for  rounding  off  a  period  ; 
and  it  will  not  be  the  first  time  that  truth  has  been  sac- 
rificed to  verbosity  and  antithesis. 

To  measure  lances  with  Hayley  may  be  esteemed  pre- 
sumptuous ;  but  probably  the  following,  although  much 
inferior  as  a  composition,  would  have  had  more  effect 
than  his  polished  and  harmonious  lines. 

*  The  Monthly  Reviewer. 


394  COMPLETE    WORKS 

NSCRIPTION    FOR  A  MONUMENT 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  COWPER. 

Reader  !  if  with  no  vulgar  sympathy 
rhou  view'st  the  wTeck  of  genius  and  of  worth, 
Stay  thou  thy  footsteps  near  this  hallow'd  spot. 
Here  Cowper  rests.     Akhough  renown  have^made 
His  name  familiar  to  thine  ear,  this  stone 
May  tell  thee  that  his  virtues  were  above 
The  common  portion  : — that  the  voice,  now  hush'd 
In  death,  was  once  serenely  querulous 
With  pity's  tones,  and  in  the  ear  of  wo 
Spake  music.     Now  forgetful  at  thy  feet 
His  tired  head  presses  on  its  last  long  rest, 
Still  tenant  of  the  tomb ; — and  on  the  cheek, 
Once  warm  with  animation's  lambent  flush. 
Sits  the  pale  image  of  unmark'd  decay. 
Yet  mourn  not.     He  had  chosen  the  better  part : 
And  these  sad  garments  of  mortality 
Put  off,  we  trust,  that  to  a  happier  land 
He  went  a  light  and  gladsome  passenger 
Sigh'st  thou  for  honors,  reader  1     Call  to  mind 
That  glory's  voice  is  impotent  to  pierce 
The  silence  of  the  tomb  !  but  virtue  blooms 
Even  on  the  wreck  of  life,  and  mounts  the  skies  ! 
So  gird  thy  loins  with  lowliness,  and  walk 
With  Cowper  on  the  pilgrimage  of  Christ. 

This  inscription  is  faulty  from  its  length,  but  if  a 
painter  cannot  get  the  requisite  effect  at  one  stroke,  he 
must  do  it  by  many.  The  laconic  style  of  epitaphs  is 
the  most  difficult  to  be  managed  of  any,  inasmuch  as 
most  is  expected  from  it.  A  sentence  standing  alone  on 
a  tomb,  or  a  monument,  is  expected  to  contain  some- 
thing particularly  striking :  and  when  this  expectation 
is  disappointed,  the  reader  feels  like  a  man  who,  having 
been  promised  an  excellent  joke,  is  treated  with  a  stale 
conceit,  or  a  vapid  pun.  The  best  specimen  of  this 
kind,  Avhich  I  am  acquainted  with,  is  that  on  a  French 
general : 

'  Siste,  Viator  ;  Heroem  calcas  f 
Stop,  traveller  ;  thou  treadest  on  a  hero  ! 


OF  H.  K.  WHITE.  39^ 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

( NO.  IX. ) 


Scires  e  sanguine  natos. 

Ovid. 


It  is  common  for  busy  and  active  men  to  behold  the 
occupations  of  the  retired  and  contemplative  person  with 
contempt.  They  consider  his  speculations  as  idle  and 
unproductive  ;  as  they  participate  in  none  of  his  feelings, 
they  are  strangers  to  his  motives,  his  views,  and  his 
delights  ;  they  behold  him  elaborately  employed  on  what 
they  conceive  forwards  none  of  the  interests  of  life,  con- 
tributes to  none  of  its  gratifications,  removes  none  of  its 
inconveniences :  they  conclude,  therefore,  that  he  is 
led  away  by  the  delusions  of  futile  philosophy,  that 
he  labors  for  no  good,  and  lives  to  no  end.  Of  the  va- 
rious frames  of  mind  which  they  observe  in  him,  no 
one  seems  to  predominate  more,  and  none  appears  to 
them  more  absurd,  than  sadness,  which  seems,  in  some 
degree,  to  pervade  all  his  views,  and  shed  a  solemn  tinge 
over  all  his  thoughts.  Sadness,  arising  from  no  person- 
al grief,  and  connected  with  no  individual  concern,  they 
regard  as  moonstruck  melancholy,  the  effect  of  a  mind 
overcast  with  constitutional  gloom,  and  diseased  with 
habits  of  vain  and  fanciful  speculation.—'  We  can  share 
with  the  sorrows  of  the  unfortunate,'  say  they,  'but 
this  monastic  spleen  merits  only  our  derision  :  it  tends 
to  no  beneficial  purpose,  it  benefits  neither  its  possessor 
nor  society.'  Those  who  have  thought  a  little  more  on 
this  subject  than  the  gay  and  busy  crowd,  will  draw 
conclusions  of  a  different  nature.  That  there  is  a  sad- 
ness, springing  from  the  noblest  and  purest  sources,  a 
sadness  friendly  to  the  human  heart,  and,  by  direct  con- 


S96  COMPLETE    WORKS 

sequence,  to  human  nature  in  general,  is  a  truth  which 
a  little  illustration  will  render  tolerably  clear,  and  which, 
when  understood  in  its  full  force,  may  probably  convert 
contempt  and  ridicule  into  respect. 

I  set  out,  then,  with  the  proposition,  that  the  man  who 
thinks  deeply,  especially  if  his  reading  be  extensive,  will, 
unless  his  heart  be  very  cold  and  very  light,  become 
habituated  to  a  pensive,  or,  with  more  propriety,  a 
mournful  cast  of  thought.  This  will  arise  from  two 
more  particular  sources — from  the  view  of  human  nature 
in  general,  as  demonstrated  by  the  experience  both  of 
past  and  present  times,  and  from  the  contemplation  of 
individual  instances  of  human  depravity  and  of  human 
suffering.  The  first  of  these  is,  indeed,  the  last  in  the 
order  of  time,  for  his  general  views  of  humanity  are  in  a 
manner  consequential,  or  resulting  from  the  special ;  but 
I  have  inverted  that  order  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity. 

Of  those  who  have  occasionally  thought  on  these  sub- 
jects, I  may,  with  perfect  assurance  of  their  reply,  in- 
quire what  have  been  their  sensations  when  they  have, 
lor  a  moment,  attained  a  more  enlarged  and  capacious 
notion  of  the  state  of  man  in  all  its  bearings  and  depen- 
dences. They  have  found,  and  the  profoundest  philoso- 
phers have  done  no  more,  that  they  are  enveloped  in 
mystery,  and  that  the  mystery  of  man's  situation  is  not 
without  alarming  and  fearful  circumstances.  They  have 
discovered  that  all  they  know  of  themselves  is  that  they 
live,  but  that  from  whence  they  came,  or  whither  they 
are  going,  is  by  Nature  altogether  hidden  ;  that  impene- 
trable gloom  surrounds  them  on  every  side,  and  that  they 
even  hold  their  morrow  on  the  credit  of  to-day,  when  it 
is,  in  fact,  buried  in  the  vague  and  indistinct  gulf  of  the 
ages  to  come  ! — These  are  reflections  deeply  interesting, 
and  lead  to  others  so  awful,  that  many  gladly  shut  their 
eyes  on  the  giddy  and  unfathomable  depths  which  seem 
to  stretch  before  them.  The  meditative  man,  however, 
endeavours  to  pursue  them  to  the  farthest  stretch  of  the 
reasoning  powers,  and  to  enlarge  his  conceptions  of  the 
mysteries  of  his  own  existence  ;  and  the  more  he  learns, 
and  the  deeper  he  penetrates,  the  more  cause  does  he 
find  for  being  serious,  and  the  more  inducements  to  be 
continually  thoughtful. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  307 

If,  again,  we  turn  from  the  condition  of  mortal  exis- 
tence, considered  in  the  abstract,  to  the  qualities  and 
characters  of  man,  and  his  condition  in  a  state  of  society, 
we  see  things  perhaps  equally  strange  and  infinitely 
more  affecting. — In  the  economy  of  creation,  we  per- 
ceive nothing  inconsistent  with  the  power  of  an  all-wise 
and  all-merciful  God.  A  perfect  harmony  runs  through 
all  the  parts  of  the  universe.  Plato's  sirens  sing  not 
only  from  the  planetary  octave,  but  through  all  the 
minutest  divisions  of  the  stupendous  whole  ;  order,  be€iu- 
ty,  and  perfection,  the  traces  of  the  great  Architect, 
glow  through  every  particle  of  his  work.  At  man,  how- 
ever, we  stop  :  there  is  one  exception.  The  harmony 
of  order  ceases,  and  vice  and  misery  disturb  the  beauti- 
ful consistency  of  creation,  and  bring  us  first  acquainted 
with  positive  evil.  We  behold  men  carried  irresistibly 
away  by  corrupt  principles  and  vicious  inclinations,  in- 
dulging in  propensities,  destructive  as  well  to  themselves 
as  to  those  around  them  ;  the  stronger  oppressing  the 
weaker,  and  the  bad  persecuting  the  good  !  we  see  the 
depraved  in  prosperity,  the  virtuous  in  adversity,  the 
guilty  unpunished,  the  deserving  overwhelmed  with  un- 
provoked misfortunes.  From  hence  we  are  tempted  to 
think,  that  He,  whose  arm  holds  the  planets  in  their 
course,  and  directs  the  comets  along  their  eccentric  or- 
bits, ceases  to  exercise  his  providence  over  the  affairs 
of  mankind,  and  leaves  them  to  be  governed  and  direct- 
ed by  the  impulses  of  a  corrupt  heart,  or  the  blind  work- 
ings of  chance  alone.  Yet  this  is  inconsistent  both  with 
the  wisdom  and  the  goodness  of  the  Deity.  If  God  per- 
mit evil,  he  causes  it ;  the  difference  is  casuistical.  We 
are  led,  therefore,  to  conclude,  that  it  was  not  always 
thus  :  that  man  was  created  in  a  far  different  and  far 
happier  condition  ;  but  that,  by  some  means  or  other,  he 
has  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  Maker.  Here  then  is 
a  mystery.  The  ancients,  led  by  reasonings  alone,  per- 
ceived it  with  amazement,  but  did  not  solve  the  problem. 
They  attempted  some  explanation  of  it  by  the  lame  fic- 
tion of  a  golden  age  and  its  cession,  where,  by  a  circu- 
lar mode  of  reasoning,  they  attribute  the  introduction  of 
vice  to  their  gods  having  deserted  the  earth,  and  the 
34 


293  COMPLETE    WORKS 

desertion  of  the  gods  to  the  introduction  of  vice.*  This, 
however,  was  the  logic  of  the  poets  ;  the  philosophers  dis- 
regarded the  fable,  but  did  not  dispute  the  fact  it  was  in- 
tended to  account  for.  They  often  hint  at  human  degen- 
eracy, and  some  unknown  curse  hanging  over  our  being, 
and  even  coming  into  the  world  along  with  us.  Pliny,  in 
the  preface  to  his  seventh  book,  has  this  remarkable 
passage  :  '  The  animal  about  to  rule  over  the  rest  of 
created  animals  lies  weeping,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
making  his  first  entrance  upon  life  with  sharp  pangs, 
and  this  J  for  no  other  crime  than  that  he  is  horn  man.'' — Cice- 
ro, in  a'passage,  for  the  preservation  of  which  we  are 
indebted  to  St.  Augustine,  gives  a  yet  stronger  idea  of 
an  existing  degeneracy  in  human  nature  :— '  Man,'  says 
he,  '  comes  into  existence,  not  as  from  the  hands  of  a 
mother,  but  of  a  step-dame  nature,  with  a  body  feeble, 
naked,  and  fragile,  and  a  mind  exposed  to  anxiety  and 
care,  abject  in  fear,  unmeet  for  labor,  prone  to  licen- 
tiousness, in  which,  however,  there  still  dwell  some 
sparks  of  the  divine  mind,  though  obscured,  and,  as  it 
were,  in  ruins.'  And,  in  another  place,  he  intimates  it 
as  a  current  opinion,  that  man  comes  into  the  world  as 
into  a  state  of  punishment  expiatory  of  crimes  commit- 
ted in  some  previous  stage  of  existence,  of  which  we 
now  retain  no  recollection. 

From  these  proofs,  and  from  daily  observation  and 
experience,  there  is  every  ground  for  concluding  that 
man  is  in  a  state  of  misery  and  depravity  quite  incon- 
sistent with  the  happiness  for  which,  by  a  benevolent 
God,  he  must  have  been  created.     We  see  glaring  marks 

*  Kai  Tore  St]  nqog  oXvunov  ano  x^ovog  BVQvodsnig, 
Abvxoioiv  (fUQEsoai  x(tlv%pautvoi  jf^oa  xalov, 
A&avarwv  utra  ^vXov  irov,  nQoXmovt'  av^Qoinovg 
Ai.Stag»y.aL  NtusOig-  ra  Se  UiipBrai  aXysa  Xvyqct 
©vtjroig  av-9^QW7iQioi^  y.axov  S'  ovx  saotrai  aXxij. 

Hesiod.  Opera  et  Dies.  Lib.  1.  195., 

Victa  jacet  Pietas  :  et  Virgo  caede  madentes. 
Ultima  coelestum  terras  Astraea  reliquit.         O 

Ovid.  Metamor.  L.  1.  Fab.  4 

Paulatim  deinde  ad  Superos  Astraea  recessit, 
Hac  comite  atque  duse  pariter  fugere  sorores. 

Juvenal.  Sat.  vi.  1.  10. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  399 

of  this  in  our  own  times.  Prejudice  alone  blinds  us  to 
the  absurdity  and  the  horror  of  those  systematic  murders 
which  go  by  the  name  of  wars,  where  man  falls  on  man, 
brother  slaughters  brother,  where  death,  in  every  vari- 
ety of  horror,  preys  'on  the  finely-fibred  human  frame, "^  and 
where  the  cry  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan  rise  up  to 
heaven  long  after  the  thunder  of  the  fight  and  the  clang 
of  arms  have  ceased,  and  the  bones  of  sons,  brothers, 
and  husbands  slain  are  grown  white  on  the  field.  Cus- 
toms like  these  vouch,  with  most  miraculous  organs, 
for  the  depravity  of  the  human  heart,  and  these  are  not 
the  most  mournful  of  those  considerations  which  pre- 
sent themselves  to  the  mind  of  the  thinking  man. 

Private  life  is  equally  fertile  in  calamitous  perversion 
of  reason,  and  extreme  accumulation  of  misery.     On  the 
one  hand,  we  see  a  large  proportion  of  men  sedulously 
employed  in  the  eduction  of  their  own  ruin,  pursuing 
vice  in  all  its  varieties,  and  sacrificing  the  peace  and 
happiness  of  the  innocent  and  unoffending  to  their  own 
brutal  gratifications  ;  and,  on  the  other,  pain,  misfortune, 
and  misery,  overwhelming  alike  the  good  and  the  bad, 
the  provident  and  the  improvident.     But  too  general  a 
view  would  distract  our  attention  :  let  the  reader  pardon 
me  if  I  suddenly  draw  him  away  from  the  survey  of  the 
crowds  of  life  to  a  few  detached  scenes.     We  will  select 
a  single  picture  at  random.     The  character  is  common. 
Behold  that  beautiful  female,  who  is  rallying  a  well- 
dressed  young  man  with   so  much  gayety  and  humor. 
Did  you  ever  see  so  lovely  a  countenance  ?     There  is  an 
expression  of  vivacity  in  her  fine  dark  eye  which  quite 
captivates  one  ;  and  her  smile,  were  it  a  little  less  bold, 
would  be  bewitching.     How  gay  and  careless  she  seems  ! 
One  would  suppose  she  had  a  very  light  and  happy  heart. 
Alas  !   how   appearances   deceive  !     This  gayety  is  all 
feigned.     It  is  her   business  to  please,  and   beneath  a 
fair  and  painted   outside   she  conceals  an  unquiet  and 
forlorn  breast.     When  she  was  yet  very  young,  an  en- 
gaging but  dissolute  young  man  took  advantage  of  her 
simplicity,  and  of  the  afl^ection  with  which  he  had  in- 
spired her,   to  betray  her  virtue.     At  first  her  infamy 
cost  her  many  tears  ;  but  habit  wore  away  this  remorse, 
leaving  only  a  kind  of  indistinct  regret,   and,  as  she 


40Q  COMPLETE    WORKS 

fondly  loved  her  betrayer,  she  experienced,  at  times,  a 
mingled  pleasure  even  in  this  abandoned  situation.  But 
this  was  soon  over.  Her  lover,  on  pretence  of  a  journey 
into  the  country,  left  her  forever.  She  soon  afterwards 
heard  of  his  marriage,  with  an  agony  of  grief  which  few 
can  adequately  conceive,  and  none  describe.  The  calls 
of  want,  however,  soon  subdued  the  more  distracting 
ebullitions  of  anguish.  She  had  no  choice  left ;  all  the 
gates  of  virtue  were  shut  upon  her,  and  though  she 
really  abhorred  the  course,  she  was  obliged  to  betake 
herself  to  vice  for  support.  Her  next  keeper  possessed 
her  person  without  her  heart.  She  has  since  passed 
through  several  hands,  and  has  found,  by  bitter  expe- 
rience, that  the  vicious,  on  whose  generosity  she  is 
thrown,  are  devoid  of  all  feeling  but  that  of  self-gratifi- 
cation, and  that  even  the  wages  of  prostitution  are  re- 
luctantly and  grudgingly  paid.  She  now  looks  on  all 
men  as  sharpers.  She  smiles  but  to  entangle  and  de- 
stroy, and  while  she  simulates  fondness,  is  intent  only 
on  the  extorting  of  that,  at  best  poor  pittance,  which 
her  necessities  loudly  demand.  Thoughtless  as  she  may 
seem,  she  is  not  without  an  idea  of  her  forlorn  and 
wretched  situation,  and  she  looks  only  to  sudden  death 
as  her  refuge,  against  that  time  when  her  charms  shall 
cease  to  allure  the  eye  of  incontinence,  when  even  the 
lowest  haunts  of  infamy  shall  be  shut  against  her,  and 
without  a  friend  or  a  hope,  she  must  sink  under  the 
pressure  of  want  and  disease. 

But  we  will  now  shift  the  scene  a  little,  and  select 
another  object.  Behold  yon  poor  weary  wretch,  who, 
with  a  child  wrapped  in  her  arms,  with  difficulty  drags 
along  the  road.  The  man,  with  a  knapsack,  who  is 
walking  before  her,  is  her  husband,  and  is  marching  to 
join  his  regiment.  He  has  been  spending,  at  a  dram- 
shop in  the  town  they  have  just  left,  the  supply  which 
the  pale  and  weak  appearance  of  his  wife  proclaims  was 
necessary  for  her  sustenance.  He  is  now  half  drunk,  and 
is  venting  the  artificial  spirits  which  intoxication  excites 
in  the  abuse  of  his  weary  helpmate  behind  him.  She 
seems  to  listen  to  his  reproaches  in  patient  silence.  Her 
face  will  tell  you  more  than  many  words,  as,  with  a  wan 
and  meaning  look,  she  surveys  the  little  wretch  who  is 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  401 

asleep  on  her  arms.  The  turbulent  brutality  of  the  man 
excites  no  attention  :  she  is  pondering  on  the  future 
chance  of  life,  and  the  probable  lot  of  her  heedless  little 
one. 

One  other  picture,  and  I  have  done.  The  man  pacing 
with  a  slow  step  and  languid  aspect  over  yon  prison 
court,  was  once  a  fine  dashing  fellow,  the  admiration  of 
the  ladies,  and  the  envy  of  the  men.  He  is  the  only 
representative  of  a  once  respectable  family,  and  is 
brought  to  this  situation  by  unlimited  indulgence  at 
that  time  when  the  check  is  most  necessary.  He  began 
to  figure  in  genteel  life  at  an  early  age.  His  niisjudging 
mother,  to  whose  sole  care  he  was  left,  thinking  no  al- 
liance too  good  for  her  darUng,  cheerfully  supplied  his 
extravagance,  under  the  idea  that  it  would  not  last  long, 
and  that  it  would  enable  him  to  shine  in  those  circles 
where  she  wished  him  to  rise.  But  he  soon  found  that 
habits  of  prodigality,  once  well  gained,  are  never  eradi- 
cated. His  fortune,  though  genteel,  was  not  adequate 
to  such  habits  of  expense.  His  unhappy  parent  lived  to 
see  him  make  a  degrading  alliance,  and  come  in  danger 
of  a  gaol,  and  then  died  of  a  broken  heart.  His  affairs 
soon  wound  themselves  up.  His  debts  were  enormous, 
and  he  had  nothing  to  pay  them  with.  He  has  now 
been  in  that  prison  many  years,  and  since  he  is  excluded 
from  the  benefit  of  an  insolvency  act,  he  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  the  idea  of  ending  his  days  there.  His  wife, 
whose  beauty  had  decoyed  him,  since  she  found  he 
could  not  support  her,  deserted  him  for  those  who  could, 
leaving  him  without  friend  or  companion,  to  pace,  with 
measured  steps,  over  the  court  of  a  country  gaol,  and 
endeavour  to  beguile  the  lassitude  of  imprisonment, 
by  thinking  on  the  days  that  are  gone,  or  counting  the 
squares  in  his  grated  window  in  every  possible  direction, 
backwards,  forwards,  and  across,  till  he  sighs  to  find  the 
sum  always  the  same,  and  that  the  more  anxiously  we 
strive  to  beguile  the  moments  in  their  course,  the  more 
sluggishly  they  travel. 

If  these  are  accurate  pictures  of  some  of  the  varieties 

of  human  suffering,  and  if  such  pictures  are   common 

even  to  triteness,  what  conclusions  must  we  draw  as  to 

the  condition  of  man  in  general,  and  what  must  be  the 

Si* 


402  COMPLETE    WORKS 

prevailing  frame  of  mind  of  him  who  meditates  much  on 
these  subjects,  and  who,  unbracing  the  whole  tissue  of 
causes  and  effects,  sees  Misery  invariably  the  offspring  of 
Vice,  and  Vice  existing  in  hostility  to  the  intentions  and 
wishes  of  God  ?  Let  the  meditative  man  turn  where 
he  will,  he  finds  traces  of  the  depraved  state  of  Nature, 
and  her  consequent  misery.  History  presents  him  with 
little  but  murder,  treachery,  and  crimes  of  every  descrip- 
tion. Biography  only  strengthens  the  view,  by  concen- 
trating it.  The  philosophers  remind  him'  of  the  existence 
of  evil,  by  their  lessons  how  to  avoid  or  endure  it  ;  and 
the  very  poets  themselves  afford  him  pleasure,  not  un- 
connected with  regret,  as,  either  by  contrast,  exempli- 
fication, or  deduction,  they  bring  the  world  and  its 
circumstances  before  his  eyes. 

That  such  a  one,  then,  is  prone  to  sadness,  who  will 
wonder  ?  If  such  meditations  are  beneficial,  who  will 
blame  them  ?  The  discovery  of  evil  naturally  leads  us 
to  contribute  our  mite  towards  the  alleviation  of  the 
wretchedness  it  introduces.  While  we  lament  vice,  we 
learn  to  shun  it  ourselves  and  to  endeavour,  if  possible, 
to  arrest  its  progress  in  those  around  us  ;  and  in  the 
course  of  these  high  and  lofty  speculations,  we  are  in- 
sensibly led  to  think  humbly  of  ourselves,  and  to  lift  up 
our  thoughts  to  Him  who  is  alone  the  fountain  of  all 
perfection  and  the  source  of  all  good.  W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(XO.   X.) 


La  rime  est  une  esclave,  et  ne  doit  qu'obeir. 

Boileau  L'  Art  Poetique. 


Experiments  in  versification  have  not  often  been  sue- 
cessful.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  with  all  his  genius,  great  as 
it  undoubtedly  was,  could  not  impart  grace  to  his  hex- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  403 

ameters,  or  fluency  to  his  sapphics.  Spenser's  stanza 
was  new,  but  his  verse  was  familiar  to  the  ear ;  and 
though  his  rhymes  were  frequent  even  to  satiety,  he 
seems  to  have  avoided  the  awkwardness  of  novelty,  and 
the  difficulty  of  unpractised  metres.  Donne  had  not 
music  enough  to  render  his  broken  rhyming  couplets 
sufferable,  and  neither  his  wit  nor  his  pointed  satire 
were  sufficient  to  rescue  him  from  that  neglect  which 
his  uncouth  and  rugged  versification  speedily  superin- 
duced. 

In  our  times,  Mr.  Southey  has  given  grace  and  melo- 
dy to  some  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  measures,  and  Mr. 
Bowles  has  written  rhyming  heroics,  wherein  the  sense 
is  transmitted  from  couplet  to  couplet,  and  the  pauses 
are  varied  with  all  the  freedom  of  blank  verse,  without 
exciting  any  sensation  of  ruggedness,  or  offisnding  the 
nicest  ear.  But  these  are  minor  eflbrts  :  the  former  of 
these  exquisite  poets  has  taken  a  yet  wider  range,  and 
in  his  '  Thalaba  the  Destroyer,'  has  spurned  at  all  the 
received  laws  of  metre,  and  framed  a  fabric  of  verse  al- 
together his  own. 

An  innovation,  so  bold  as  that  of  Mr.  Southey,  was 
sure  to  meet  with  disapprobation  and  ridicule.  The 
world  naturally  looks  with  suspicion  on  systems  which 
contradict  established  principles,  and  refuse  to  quadrate 
with  habits  which,  as  they  have  been  used  to,  men  are 
apt  to  think  cannot  be  improved  upon.  The  opposition 
which  has  been  made  to  the  metre  of  Thalaba,  is,  there- 
fore, not  so  much  to  be  imputed  to  its  want  of  harmony, 
as  to  the  operation  of  existing  prejudices  ;  and  it  is  fair 
to  conclude,  that,  as  these  prejudices  are  softened  by 
usage,  and  the  strangeness  of  novelty  wears  off,  the 
peculiar  features  of  this  lyrical  frame  of  verse  will  be 
more  candidly  appreciated,  and  its  merits  more  unre- 
servedly acknowledged. 

Whoever  is  conversant  with  the  writings  of  this  au- 
thor, will  have  observed  and  admired  that  greatness  of 
mind,  and  comprehension  of  intellect,  by  which  he  is 
enabled,  on  all  occasions,  to  throw  off  the  shackles  of 
habit  and  prepossession.  Southey  never  treads  in  the 
beaten  track :  his  thoughts,  while  they  are  those  of  na- 
ture, carry  that  cast  of  originality  which  is  the  stamp 


404  COMPLETE    WORKS 

and  testimony  of  g-enius.  He  views  things  through  a 
peculiar  phasis,  and  while  he  has  the  feelings  of  a  man, 
they  are  those  of  a  man  almost  abstracted  from  mortali- 
ty, and  reflecting  on,  and  painting  the  scenes  of  life,  as 
if  he  were  a  mere  spectator,  uninfluenced  by  his  own 
connexion  with  the  objects  he  surveys.  To  this  faculty 
of  bold  discrimination  I  attribute  many  of  Mr.  Southey's 
peculiarities  as  a  poet.  He  never  seems  to  inquire  how 
other  men  would  treat  a  subject,  or  what  may  happen 
to  be  the  usage  of  the  times  ;  but  filled  with  that  strong 
sense  of  fitness,  which  is  the  result  of  bold  and  unshac- 
kled thought,  he  fearlessly  pursues  that  course  which  his 
own  sense  of  propriety  points  out. 

It  is  very  evident  to  me,  and  I  should  conceive  to  all 
who  consider  the  subject  attentively,  that  the  structure 
of  the  verse,  which  Mr.  Southey  has  promulgated  in  his 
Thalaba,  was  neither  adopted  rashly,  nor  from  any  vain 
emulation  of  originality.  As  the  poet  himself  happily 
observes,  '  It  is  the  arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale,'' 
No  one  would  wish  to  see  the  Joan  of  Arc  in  s\ieh  a 
garb  ;  but  the  wild  freedom  of  the  versification  of  Thala- 
ba accords  well  with  the  romantic  wildness  of  the  story; 
and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that,  had  any  other  known 
measure  been  adopted,  the  poem  would  have  been  de- 
prived of  half  its  beauty,  and  all  its  propriety.  In  blank 
verse  it  would  have  been  absurd ;  in  rhyme,  insipid. 
The  lyrical  manner  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  sudden 
transitions  and  rapid  connexions  of  an  Arabian  tale, 
while  its  variety  precludes  taedium,  and  its  full,  because 
unshackled,  cadence  satisfies  the  ear  with  legitimate 
harmony.  At  first,  indeed,  the  verse  may  appear  un- 
couth, because  it  is  new  to  the  ear ;  but  I  defy  any  man 
who  has  any  feeling  of  melody,  to  peruse  the  whole 
poem  without  paying  tribute  to  the  sweetness  of  its  flow, 
and  the  gracefulness  of  its  modulations. 

In  judging  of  this  extraordinary  poem,  we  should  con- 
sider it  as  a  genuine  lyric  production, — we  should  con- 
ceive it  as  recited  to  the  harp,  in  times  when  such  rela- 
tions carried  nothing  incredible  with  them.  Carrying 
this  idea  along  with  us,  the  admirable  art  of  the  poet 
will  strike  us  with  tenfold  conviction  ;  the  abrupt  sublimi- 
ty of  his  transitions,  the  sublime  simplicity  of  his  manner, 


OF   H.    K.    WHITE.  405 

and  the  delicate  touches  by  which  he  connects  the  vari- 
ous parts  of  his  narrative,  will  then  be  more  strongly- 
observable,  and  we  shall,  in  particular,  remark  the  un- 
common felicity  with  which  he  has  adapted  his  versifica- 
tion ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  wildest  irregularity,  left 
nothing  to  shock  the  ear,  or  offend  the  judgment. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(NO.  XI.) 
THE  PROGRESS  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

Few  histories  would  be  more  worthy  of  attention  than 
that  of  the  progress  of  knowledge,  from  its  first  dawn 
to  the  time  of  its  meridian  splendor,  among  the  an- 
cient Greeks.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  precautions 
which,  in  this  early  period,  were  almost  generally  taken 
to  confine  all  knowledge  to  a  particular  branch  of  men, 
and  when  the  Greeks  began  to  contend  for  the  palm 
among  the  learned  nations,  their  backwardness  to  ack- 
nowledge the  sources  from  whence  they  derived  the 
first  principles  of  their  philosophy,  have  served  to  wrap 
this  interesting  subject  in  almost  impenetrable  obscurity. 
Few  vestiges,  except  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  now 
remain  of  the  learning  of  the  more  ancient  world.  Of 
the  two  millions  of  verses  said  to  have  been  written  by 
the  Chaldean  Zoroaster,  *  we  have  no  rehcs  ;  and  the 
oracles  which  go  under  his  name  are  pretty  generally 
acknowledged  to  be  spurious. 

The  Greeks  unquestionably  derived  their  philosophy 
from  the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans.  Both  Pythagoras 
and  Plato  had  visited  those  countries  for  the  advantage 
of  learning  ;  and  if  we  may  credit  the  received  accounts 
of  the  former  of  these  illustrious  sages,  he  was  regular- 
ly initiated  in  the  schools  of  Egypt,  during  the  period  of 
twenty-two  years  that  he  resided  in  that  country,  and 
became  the  envy  and  admiration  of  the  Egyptians  them- 

*  Pliny. 


406  COMPLETE    WORKS 

selves.  Of  the  Pythagorean  doctrines  we  have  some 
accounts  remaining- ;  and  nothing  is  wanting  to  render 
the  systems  of  Platonism  complete  and  intelligible.  In 
the  dogmas  of  these  philosophers,  therefore,  we  may  be 
able  to  trace  the  learning  of  these  primitive  nations, 
though  our  conclusions  must  be  cautiously  drawn,  and 
much  must  be  allowed  to  the  active  intelligence  of  two 
Greeks.  Ovid's  short  summary  of  the  philosophy  of 
Pythagoras  deserves  attention. 

-Isque,  licet  coeli  regione  remotos. 


Mente  Deos  adiit :  et,  quae  natura  negabat 
Visibus  humanis,  oculis  ea  pectoris  hausit. 
Cumque  animo,  et  vigili  perspexerat  omnia  curaj 
In  medium  discenda  dabat :  coetumque  silentum, 
Dictaque  mirantum,  magni  primordia  mundi 
Et  rerum  causas  et  quid  natura  docebat, 
Quid  Deus  :  unde  nives ;  quae  fulminis  esset  origo 
Jupiter,  an  veuti,  discussa  nube,  tonarent, 
Quid  quateret  terras  :  qua  sidera  lege  mearent, 
Et  quodcumque  latet. 

If  we  are  to  credit  this  account,  and  it  is  corroborated 
by  many  other  testimonies,  Pythagoras  searched  deeply 
into  natural  causes.  Some  have  imagined,  and  strongly 
asserted,  that  his  central  fire  was  figurative  of  the  sun, 
and,  therefore,  that  he  had  an  idea  of  its  real  situation  ; 
but  this  opinion,  so  generally  adopted,  may  be  combated 
with  some  degree  of  reason.  I  should  be  inclined  to 
think  Pythagoras  gained  his  idea  of  the  great  central, 
vivifying,  and  creative  fire  from  the  Chaldeans,  and  that, 
therefore,  it  was  the  representative  not  of  the  sun  but 
of  the  Deity.  Zoroaster  taught  that  there  was  one  God, 
Eternal,  the  Father  of  the  Universe  :  he  assimilated  the 
Deity  to  light,  and  applied  to  him  the  names  of  Light, 
Beams,  and  Splendor.  The  Magi,  corrupting  his  repre- 
sentation of  the  Supreme  Being,  and,  taking  literally 
what  was  meant  as  an  allegory  or  symbol,  supposed  that 
God  was  this  central  fire,  the  source  of  heat,  light,  and 
life,  residing  in  the  centre  of  the  universe  ;  and  from 
hence  they  introduced  among  the  Chaldeans  the  worship 
of  fire.  That  Pythagoras  was  tainted  with  this  super- 
stition is  well  known.  On  the  testimony  of  Plutarch, 
his  disciples  held,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  world  is  fire, 
or  in  the  midst  of  the  four  elements  is  the  fiery  globe  of 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE-  407 

Unity,  or  Monad — the  procreative,  nutritive,  and  exci- 
tive  power.  The  sacred  fire  of  Vesta,  among  the  Greeks 
and  Latins,  was  a  remain  of  this  doctrine. 

As  the  hmits  of  this  paper  will  not  allow  me  to  take 
in  all  the  branches  of  this  subject,  I  shall  confine  my  at- 
tention to  the  opinions  held  by  these  early  nations,  of 
the  nature  of  the  Godhead. 

Amidst  the  corruptions  introduced  by  the  Magi,  we 
may  discern,  with  tolerable  certainty,  that  Zoroaster 
taught  the  worship  of  the  one  true  God  ;  and  Thales,  Py- 
thagoras, and  Plato,  who  had  all  been  initiated  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  Chaldeans,  taught  the  same  doctrine. 
These  philosophers  likewise  asserted  the  omnipotence 
and  eternity  of  God ;  and  that  he  was  the  creator  of  all 
things,  and  the  governor  of  the  universe.  Plato  de- 
cisively supported  the  doctrines  of  future  rewards  and 
punishments  ;  and  Pythagoras,  struck  with  the  idea  of 
the  omnipresence  of  the  Deity,  defined  him  as  animus  per 
universas  mundi  partes  omnemque  naturam  commeans  atque  dijffu- 
sus,  ex  quo  omnia  quae  nascuntur  animalia  vitam  capiunt.* — An 
intelligence  moving  upon,  and  diffused  over  all  the  parts 
of  the  universe  and  all  nature,  from  which  all  animals 
derive  their  existence.  As  for  the  swarm  of  gods  wor- 
shipped both  in  Egypt  and  Greece,  it  is  evident  they 
were  only  esteemed  as  inferior  deities.  In  the  time  of 
St.  Paul,  there  was  a  temple  at  Athens  inscribed  to  the 
unknown  God :  and  Hesiod  makes  them  younger  than 
the  earth  and  heaven. 

Ec  aQxv?  ov?  JTaia  xai  OvQavog  evQvg  enxrov 
Ol  t'  ax  Tcov  syevoTO  Stoi  dwrr^Qsg  tawv. 

Theoo. 

If  Pythagoras,  and  the  other  philosophers  who  suc- 
ceeded him,  paid  honor  to  these  gods,  they  either  did  it 
through  fear  of  encountering  ancient  prejudices,  or  they 
reconciled  it  by  recurring  to  the  Da^monology  of  their 
masters,  the  Chaldeans,  who  maintained  the  agency  of 
good  and  bad  Daimons,  who  presided  over  ditferent 
things,  and  were  distinguished  into  the  powers  of  light 
and  darkness,  heat  and   cold.     It  is   remarkable,   too, 

♦Lanctantius  Div.  Inst.  lib.  cap.  5.  etiam,  Minucius  Felix,  '  Pythagone  Deua 
est  animus  per  univeream  rerum  natuiara  commeans  atque  iiiteutud  ex  quo  etiauj 
animalium  omnium  vita  capiatur.' 


408  COMPLETE    WORKS 

that  amongst  all  these  people,  whether  Egyptians  or 
Chaldeans,  Greeks  or  Romans,  as  well  as  every  other 
nation  un  er  the  sun,  sacrifices  were  made  to  the  gods, 
in  order  to  render  them  propitious  to  their  wishes,  or  to 
expiate  their  offences — a  fact  which  proves,  that  the 
conviction  of  the  interference  of  the  Deity  in  humam 
affairs  is  universal ;  and,  what  is  much  more  important, 
that  this  custom  is  primitive,  and  derived  from  the  first 
inhabitants  of  the  world. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(XO.  XII.) 

While  the  seat  of  empire  was  yet  at  Byzantium,  and 
that  city  was  the  centre,  not  only  of  dominion,  but  of 
learning  and  politeness,  a  certain  hermit  had  fixed  his 
residence  in  a  cell,  on  the  banks  of  the  Athyras,  at  the 
distance  of  about  ten  miles  from  the  capital.  The  spot 
was  retired,  although  so  near  the  great  city,  and  was 
protected,  as  well  by  woods  and  precipices  as  by  the 
awful  reverence  with  which,  at  that  time,  all  ranks  be- 
held the  character  of  a  recluse.  Indeed,  the  poor  old 
man,  who  tenanted  the  little  hollow,  at  the  summit  of  a 
crag,  beneath  which  the  Athyras  rolls  its  impetuous 
torrent,  was  not  famed  for  the  severity  of  his  penances, 
or  the  strictness  of  his  mortifications.  That  he  was 
either  studious,  or  protracted  his  devotions  to  a  late 
hour,  was  evident,  for  his  lamp  was  often  seen  to 
stream  through  the  trees  which  shaded  his  dwelling, 
when  accident  called  any  of  the  peasants  from  their 
beds  at  unseasonable  hours.  Be  this  as  it  may,  no  mir- 
acles were  imputed  to  him  ;  the  sick  rarely  came  to  peti- 
tion for  the  benefit  of  his  prayers,  and,  though  some  both 
loved  him,  and  had  good  reason  for  loving  him,  yet 
many  undervalued  him  for  the  want  of  that  very  auster- 
ity which  the  old  man  seemed  most  desirous  to  avoid. 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  409 

It  was  evening",  and  the  long  shadows  of  the  Thra- 
cian  mountains  were  extending  still  farther  and  farther 
along  the  plains,  when  this  old  man  was  disturbed  in 
his  meditations  by  the  approach  of  a  stranger.     '  How 
far  is  it  to  Byzantium  ?'  was  the  question  put  by  the 
traveller.     '  Not  far  to  those  who  know  the  country,'  re- 
plied the  hermit,  '  but  a  stranger  would  not  easily  find 
his  way  through  the  windings  of  these  woods,  and  the 
intricacies  of  the  plains  beyond  them.     Do  you  see  that 
blue  mist  which  stretches  along  the  bounding  line  of  the 
horizon  as  far  as  the  trees  will  permit  the  eye  to  trace 
it  ?     That  is  the  Propontis  :  and  higher  up  on  the  loft, 
the  city  of  Constantinople  rears  its  proud  head  above 
the  waters.     But  I  would  dissuade  thee,  stranger,  from 
pursuing  thy  journey   farther   to-night.     Thou   mayst 
rest  in  the  village,  which  is  half  way  down  the  hill ;  or 
if  thou  wilt  share  my  supper  of  roots  and  put  up  with  a 
bed  of  leaves,  my  cell  is  open  to  thee.' — '  I  thank  thfee, 
father,'  replied  the  youth.     '  I  am  weary  with  my  jour- 
ney, and  will  accept  thy  proffered  hospitality.'     They 
ascended  the  rock  together.     The  hermit's  cell  was  the 
work  of  nature.     It  penetrated  far  into  the  rock,  and  in 
the  innermost  recess  was  a  little  chapel,  furnished  with 
a  crucifix,  and  a  human  skull,  the  objects  of  the  hermit's 
nightly  and  daily  contemplation,  for  neither  of  them  re- 
ceived his  adoration.     That  corruption  had  not  as  yet 
crept  into  the  Christian  church.     The  hermit  now  light- 
ed up  a  fire  of  dry  sticks,  (for  the  nights  are  very  pierc- 
ing in  the  regions  about  the  Hellespont  and  the  Bos- 
phorus,)  and  then  proceeded  to  prepare  their  vegetable 
meal.     While  he  was  thus  employed,  his  young  guest 
.surveyed,  with  surprise,  the  dwelling  which  he  was  to 
inhabit   for  the  night.     A  cold  rock-hole  on  the  bleak 
summit  of  one  of  the  Thracian  hills,  seemed  to  him  a 
comfortless  choice  for  a  weak  and  solitary  old  man.     The 
rude  materials  of  his  scanty  furniture  still  more  surpris- 
ed him.     A  table  fixed  to  the  ground,  a  wooden  bench, 
an  earthern  lamp,  a  number  of  rolls  of  papyrus  and  vel- 
lum, and  a  heap  of  leaves  in  a  corner,  the  hermit's  bed, 
were  all   his  stock.     '  Is  it  possible,'  at  length  he  ex- 
claimed,   'that   you  can   tenant  this  comfortless  cave, 
with  these  scanty  accommodations,  through  choice  ;  Go 
35 


410  COMPLETE    "WORKS 

with  me,  old  man,  to  Constantinople,  and  receive  from 
me  those  conveniences  which  befit  your  years.'  '  And 
what  art  thou  going  to  do  at  Constantinople,  my  young 
friend  ?'  said  the  hermit,  '  for  thy  dialect  bespeaks  thee 
a  native  of  more  southern  regions.  Am  I  mistaken,  art 
thou  not  an  Athenian.-^'  'I  am  an  Athenian,'  replied 
the  youth,  '  by  birth,  but  1  hope  I  am  not  an  Athenian 
in  vice.  I  have  left  my  degenerate  birth-place  in  quest 
of  happiness.  I  have  learned  from  my  master,  Speusip- 
pus,  a  genuine  asserter  of  the  much  belied  doctrines  of 
Epicurus,  that  as  a  future  state  is  a  mere  phantom  and 
vagary  of  the  brain,  it  is  the  only  true  wisdom  to  enjoy 
life  while  we  have  it.  But  I  have  learned  from  him 
also,  that  virtue  alone  is  true  enjoyment.  I  am  resolv- 
ed, therefore,  to  enjoy  life,  and  that  too  with  virtue,  as 
my  companion  and  guide.  My  travels  are  begun  with 
the  design  of  discovering  where  I  can  best  unite  both 
objects  :  enjoyment  the  most  exquisite,  with  virtue  the 
most  perfect.  You  perhaps  may  have  reached  the 
latter,  my  good  father  ;  the  former  you  have  certainly 
missed.  To-morrow  I  shall  continue  my  search.  At 
Constantinople,  I  shall  laugh  and  sing  with  the  gay, 
meditate  with  the  sober,  drink  deeply  of  every  unpollu- 
ted pleasure,  and  taste  all  the  fountains  of  wisdom  and 
philosophy.  I  have  heard  much  of  the  accomplishments 
of  the  women  of  Byzantium.  With  us,  females  are  mere 
household  slaves  ;  here,  I  am  told,  they  have  minds.  I 
almost  promise  myself  that  I  shall  marry  and  settle  at 
Constantinople,  where  the  loves  and  graces  seem  alone 
to  reside,  and  where  even  the  ivomen  have  minds.  My 
good  father,  how  the  wind  roars  about  this  aerial  nest 
of  yours,  and  here  you  sit  during  the  long  cold  nights, 
all  alone,  cold  and  cheerless,  when  Constantinople  is 
just  at  your  feet,  with  all  its  joys,  its  comforts,  and  its 
elegances.  I  perceive  that  the  philosophers  of  our  sect, 
who  succeeded  Epicurus,  were  right,  when  they  taught 
that  there  might  be  virtue  without  enjoyment,  and  that 
virtue  without  enjoyment  is  not  worth  the  having.'  The 
face  of  the  youth  kindled  with  animation  as  he  spake 
these  words,  and  he  visibly  enjoyed  the  consciousness 
of  superior  intelligence.  The  old  man  sighed  and  was 
silent.     As  they  eat  their  frugal  supper,  both  parties 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  411 

seemed  involved  in  deep  thought.  The  young  travel- 
ler was  dreaming  of  the  Byzantine  women  :  his  host 
seemed  occupied  with  far  different  meditations.  '  So 
you  are  ravelling  to  Constantinople  in  search  of  happi- 
ness ?'  at  length  exclaimed  the  hermit ;  '  I  too  have  been 
a  suitor  of  that  divinity,  and  it  nmy  be  of  use  to  you  to 
hear  how  I  have  fared.  The  history  of  my  life  will 
serve  to  fill  up  the  interval  before  we  retire  to  rest,  and 
my  experience  may  not  prove  altogether  useless  to  one 
who  is  about  to  go  the  same  journey  which  I  have  fin- 
ished. 

'■  These  scanty  hairs  of  mine  were  not  always  gray, 
nor  these  limbs  decrepit  :  I  was  once,  like  thee,  young, 
fresh,  and  vigorous,  full  of  delightful  dreams  and  gay 
anticipations.  Life  seemed  a  garden  of  sweets,  a  path 
of  roses  ;  and  I  thought  I  had  but  to  choose  in  what  way 
I  would  be  happy.  I  will  pass  over  the  incidents  of  my 
boyhood,  and  come  to  my  maturer  years.  I  had  scarce- 
ly seen  twenty  summers,  when  I  formed  one  of  those 
extravagant  and  ardent  attachments,  of  which  youth  is 
so  susceptible.  It  happened,  that,  at  that  time,  I  bore 
arms  under  the  emperor  Theodosius,  in  his  expedition 
against  the  Goths,  who  had  overrun  a  part  of  Thrace. 
In  our  return  from  a  successful  campaign,  we  staid  some- 
time in  the  Greek  cities,  which  border  on  the  Euxine. 
In  one  of  these  cities  I  became  acquainted  with  a  female, 
whose  form  was  not  more  elegant  than  her  mitid  was 
cultivated,  and  her  heart  untainted.  I  had  done  her 
family  some  trivial  services,  and  her  gratitude  spoke  too 
warmly  to  my  intoxicated  brain  to  leave  any  doubt  on 
my  mind  that  she  loved  me.  The  idea  was  too  exquis- 
itely pleasing  to  be  soon  dismissed.  I  sought  every 
occasion  of  being  with  her.  Her  mild,  persuasive  voice 
seemed  like  the  music  of  heaven  to  my  ears,  after  the 
toils  and  roughness  of  a  soldier's  life.  I  had  a  friend, 
too,  whose  converse,  next  to  that  of  the  dear  object  of 
my  secret  love,  was  most  dear  to  me.  He  formed 
the  third  in  all  our  meetings,  and  beyond  the  enjoyment 
of  the  society  of  these  two,  I  had  not  a  wish.  I  had 
never  yet  spoken  explicitly  to  my  female  friend,  but  I 
fondly  hoped  we  understood  each  other.  Why  should  I 
dwell   on   the   subject  .'*     I  was  mistaken.     My  friend 


41^  COMPLETE    WORKS 

threw  himself  on  my  mercy.  I  found  that  he,  not  I, 
was  the  object  of  her  afiections.  Young  man,  you  may 
conceive,  but  I  cannot  describe  what  I  felt,  as  I  joined 
their  hands.  The  stroke  was  severe,  and,  for  a  time, 
unfitted  me  for  the  duties  of  my  station.  I  suffered  the 
army  to  leave  the  place  without  accompanying  it :  and 
thus  lost  the  rewards  of  my  past  services,  and  forfeited 
the  favor  of  my  sovereign.  This  was  another  source 
of  anxiety  and  regret  to  me,  as  my  mind  recovered  its 
wonted  tone.  But  the  mind  of  youth,  however  deeply 
it  may  feel  for  awhile,  eventually  rises  up  from  dejec- 
tion, and  regains  its  wonted  elasticity.  That  rigor  by 
which  the  spirit  recovers  itself  from  the  depths  of  use- 
less regret,  and  enters  upon  new  prospects  with  its  ac- 
customed ardor,  is  only  subdued  by  time.  I  now  applied 
myself  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  under  a  Greek  master, 
and  all  my  ambition  was  directed  towards  letters.  But 
ambition  is  not  quite  enough  to  fill  a  young  man's  heart. 
I  still  felt  a  void  there,  and  sighed  as  I  reflected  on  the 
happiness  of  my  friend.  At  the  time  when  I  visited  the 
object  of  my  first  love,  a  young  Christian  woman,  her 
frequent  companion,  had  sometimes  taken  my  attention. 
She  was  an  Ionian  by  birth,  and  had  all  the  softness  and 
pensive  intelligence  which  her  countrywomen  are  said 
to  possess  when  unvitiated  by  the  corruptions  so  preva- 
lent in  that  delightful  region.  You  are  no  stranger  to 
the  contempt  with  which  the  Greeks  then  treated,  and 
do  still,  in  some  places,  treat  the  Christians.  This 
young  woman  bore  that  contempt  with  a  calmness  which 
surprised  me.  There  were  then  but  few  converts  to 
that  religion  in  those  parts,  audits  profession  was  there- 
fore more  exposed  to  ridicule  and  persecution  from  its 
strangeness.  Notwithstanding  her  religion,  I  thought  I 
could  love  this  interesting  and  amiable  female,  and,  in 
spite  of  my  former  mistake,  I  had  the  vanity  to  imagine 
I  was  not  indifferent  to  her.  As  our  intimacy  increased, 
I  learned,  to  my  astonishment,  that  she  regarded  me  as 
one  involved  in  ignorance  and  error  :  and  that,  although 
she  felt  an  affection  for  me,  yet  she  would  never  become 
my  wife,  while  I  remained  devoted  to  the  religion  of  my 
ancestors.  Piqued  at  this  discovery,  I  received  the 
books,  which  she  now  for  the  first  time  put   into  my 


OF    H.    K.     WHITE.  413 

hands,  with  pity  and  contempt.  I  expected  to  find  them 
nothing"  but  the  repositories  of  a  miserable  and  dekided 
superstition,  more  presuming  than  the  mystical  leaves 
of  the  Sibyls,  or  the  obscure  triads  of  Zoroaster.  How 
was  I  mistaken  !  There  was  much  which  I  could  not 
at  all  comprehend  ;  but,  in  the  midst  of  this  darkness, 
the  eftect  of  my  ignorance,  I  discerned  a  system  of  mo- 
rality, so  exalted,  so  exquisitely  pure,  and  so  far  remov- 
ed from  all  I  would  have  conceived  of  the  most  perfect 
virtue,  that  all  the  philosophy  of  the  Grecian  world 
seemed  worse  than  dross  in  the  comparison.  My  former 
learning  had  only  served  to  teach  me  that  something 
was  wanting  to  complete  the  systems  of  philosophers. 
Here  that  invisible  link  was  supplied,  and  I  could  even 
then  observe  a  harmony  and  consistency  in  the  whole 
which  carried  irresistible  conviction  to  my  mind.  I  will 
not  enlarge  on  this  subject.  Christianity  is  not  a  mere 
set  of  opinions  to  be  embraced  by  the  understanding. 
It  is  the  work  of  the  heart  as  well  as  the  head.  Let  it 
suffice  to  say,  that,  in  time,  I  became  a  Christian,  and 
the  husband  of  Sapphira. 


REFLECTIOISS. 


ON    PRAYER. 

If  there  be  any  duty  which  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
seems  to  have  considered  as  more  indispensably  neces- 
sary towards  the  formation  of  a  true  Christian,  it  is  that 
of  prayer.  He  has  taken  every  opportunity  of  impres- 
sing on  our  minds  the  absolute  need  in  which  we  stand 
of  the  divine  assistance,  both  to  persist  in  the  paths  of 
righteousness,  and  to  fly  from  the  allurements  of  a  fas- 
cinating, but  dangerous  life  :  and  he  has  directed  us  to 
the  only  means  of  obtaining  that  assistance  in  constant 
and  habitual  appeals  to  the  throne  of  Grace.  Prayer  is 
35* 


414  COMPLETE    WORKS 

certainly  the  foundation-stone  of  the  superstructure  of  a 
relig-ious  Ufe  :  for  a  man  can  neither  arrive  at  true  piety, 
nor  persevere  in  its  ways  when  attained,  unless,  with 
sincere  and  continued  fervency,  and  with  the  most  un- 
affected anxiety,  he  implore  Almighty  God  to  grant  him 
his  perpetual  grace,  to  guard  and  restrain  him  from  all 
those  derelictions  of  heart,  to  which  we  are,  by  nature, 
but  too  prone.  I  should  think  it  an  insult  to  the  under- 
standing of  a  Christian  to  dwell  on  the  necessity  of 
prayer,  and,  before  we  can  harangue  an  infidel  on  its 
efficacy,  we  must  convince  him,  not  only  that  the  Being 
to  whom  we  address  ourselves  really  exists,  but  that  he 
condescends  to  hear  and  to  answer  our  humble  supplica- 
tions. As  these  objects  are  foreign  to  my  present  pur- 
pose, I  shall  take  my  leave  of  the  necessity  of  prayer, 
as  acknowledged  by  all  to  whom  this  paper  is  addressed, 
and  shall  be  content  to  expatiate  on  the  strong  induce- 
ments which  we  have  to  lift  up  our  souls  to  our  Maker 
in  the  language  of  supplication  and  of  praise  ;  to  depict 
the  happiness  which  results  to  the  man  of  true  piety 
from  the  exercise  of  this  duty  ;  and,  lastly,  to  v/arn 
mankind,  lest  their  fervency  should  carry  them  into  the 
extreme  of  fanaticism,  and  their  prayers,  instead  of  being 
silent  and  unassuming  expressions  of  gratitude  to  their 
Maker,  and  humble  entreaties  for  his  favoring  grace, 
should  degenerate  into  clamorous  vociferations  and  inso- 
lent gesticulations,  utterly  repugnant  to  the  true  spirit 
of  prayer,  and  to  the  language  of  a  creature  addressing 
his  Creator. 

There  is  such  an  exalted  delight  to  a  regenerate  being 
in  the  act  of  prayer,  and  he  anticipates  with  so  much 
pleasure  amid  the  toils  of  business,  and  the  crowds  of 
the  world,  the  moment  when  he  shall  be  able  to  pour 
out  his  soul  without  interruption  into  the  bosom  of  his 
Maker,  that  I  am  persuaded,  that  the  degree  o^  desire  or 
repugnance  which  a  man  feels  to  the  performance  of  this 
amiable  duty,  is  an  infallible  criterion  of  his  acceptance 
Avith  God.  Let  the  unhappy  child  of  dissipation— let 
the  impure  voluptuary  boast  of  his  short  hours  of  exquis- 
ite enjoyment ;  even  in  the  degree  of  bliss  they  are  infi- 
nitely inferior  to  the  delight  of  which  the  righteous 
man  participates  in  his  private  devotions  ;  while  in  their 
opposite  consequences  they  lead  to  a  no  less  wide  ex- 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  415 

treme  than  heaven  and  hell,  a  state  of  positive  happi- 
ness, and  a  state  of  positive  misery.     If  there  were  no 
other  inducement  to  prayer,  than  the  very  gratification 
it  imparts  to  the  soul,  it  would  deserve  to  be  regarded 
as  the  most  important   object  of  a  Christian  ;  for  no- 
where else   could   he   purchase  so  much  calmness,    so 
much  resignation,  and  so  much  of  that  peace  and  repose 
of  spirit,  in  which  consists  the  chief  happiness  of  this 
otherwise  dark  and  stormy  being.     But  to  prayer,  be- 
sides the  inducement  of  momentary   gratification,   the 
very  self-love  implanted  in  our  bosoms  would  lead  us  to 
resort,  as  the  chief  good,  for  our  Lord  hath  said,  'Ask, 
and  it  shall  be  given  to  thee  ;   knock,   and  it  shall  be 
opened  ;'  and  not  a  supplication  made  in  the  true  spirit 
of  faith  and  humility,  but  shall  be  answered ;  not  a  re- 
quest which  is  urged   with  unfeigned   submission  and 
lowliness  of  spirit,  but  shall  be  granted,  if  it  be  consis- 
tent with  our  happiness,  either  temporal  or  eternal.    Of 
this   happiness,    however,    the   Lord   God  is    the   only 
judge  ;  but  this  we  do  know,  that  whether  our  requests 
be  granted,  or  whether  they  be  refused  all  is  working 
together  for  our  ultimate  benefit. 

When  I  say,  that  such  of  our  requests  and  Felicitations, 
as  are  urged  in  the  true  spirit  of  meekness,  humility,  and 
submission,  will  indubitably  be  ansAvered,  I  would  wish 
to  draw  a  line  between  supplications  so  urged,  and  those 
violent  and  vehement  declamations  which,  under  the 
name  of  prayers,  are  sometimes  heard  to  proceed  from 
the  lips  of  men  professing  to  worship  God  in  the  spirit 
of  meekness  and  truth.  Surely  I  need  not  impress  on 
any  reasonable  mind,  how  directly  contrary  these  inflam- 
ed and  bombastic  harangues  are  to  every  precept  of 
Christianity,  and  every  idea  of  the  deference  due  from  a 
poor  worm,  like  man,  to  the  omnipotent  and  all-great 
God.  Can  we  hesitate  a  moment  as  to  which  is  more 
acceptable  in  his  sight — the  diflident,  the  lowly,  the  re- 
tiring, and  yet  solemn  and  impressive  form  of  worship 
of  our  excellent  church  ;  and  the  wild  and  labored  ex- 
clamations, the  authoritative  and  dictatory  clamors  of 
men,  who,  forgetting  the  immense  distance  at  which 
they  stand  from  the  awful  Being  whom  they  address, 
boldly,  and  with  unblushing  front,  speak  to  their  God  as 
to  an  equal,  and  almost  dare  to  prescribe  to  his  infinite 


416  COMPLETE    WORKS 

wisdom  the  steps  it  shall  pursue  ?  How  often  has  the 
silent,  yet  eloquent  eye  of  misery,  wrung*  from  the  re- 
hictant  hand  of  charity  that  relief  which  has  been  denied 
to  the  loud  and  importunate  beggar  ?  And  is  Heaven 
to  be  taken  by  storm  ?  Are  we  to  wrest  the  Almighty 
from  his  purposes  by  vociferation  and  importunity  ? 
God  forbid  !  It  is  a  fair  and  a  reasonable,  though  a 
melancholy  inference,  that  the  Lord  shuts  his  ears 
against  prayers  like  these,  and  leaves  the  deluded  sup- 
plicants to  follow  the  impulse  of  their  own  head-strong 
passions,  without  a  guide,  and  destitute  of  every  ray  of 
his  pure  and  holy  light. 

Those  mock  apostles,  who  thus  disgrace  the  worship 
of  the  true  God  by  their  extravagance,  are  very  fond  of 
appearing  to  imitate  the  conduct  of  our  Saviour,  during 
his  mortal  peregrination  ;  but  how  contrary  were  his 
habits  to  those  of  these  deluded  men  !  Did  he  teach 
his  disciples  to  insult  the  ear  of  Heaven  with  noise  and 
clamor  ?  Were  his  precepts  those  of  fanaticism  and 
passion  ?  Did  he  inflame  the  minds  of  his  hearers  with 
vehement  and  declamatory  harangues  ?  Did  he  pray 
with  all  this  confidence — this  arrogance — this  assurance  ? 
Hovr  different  was  his  conduct !  He  divested  wisdom 
of  all  its  pomp  and  parade,  in  order  to  suit  it  to  the  ca- 
pacities of  the  meanest  of  its  auditors.  He  spake  to 
them  in  the  lowly  language  of  parable  and  similitude  ; 
and  when  he  prayed,  did  he  instruct  his  hearers  to  at- 
tend to  him  with  a  loud  chorus  of  Amens  ?  Did  he  (par- 
ticipating as  he  did  in  the  Godhead,)  did  he  assume  the 
tone  of  sufficiency,  and  the  language  of  assurance  ?  Far 
from  it !  he  prayed,  and  he  instructed  his  disciples  to 
pray,  in  lowliness  and  meekness  of  spirit ;  he  instructed 
them  to  approach  the  throne  of  Grace  with  fear  and 
trembling,  silently,  and  with  the  deepest  awe  and  ven- 
eration ;  and  he  evinced  by  his  condemnation  of  the 
prayer  of  the  self-sufficient  Pharisee,  opposed  to  that  of 
the  diffident  publican,  the  light  in  which  those  were 
considered  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord,  Avho,  setting  the 
terrors  of  his  Godhead  at  defiance,  and  boldly  building 
on  their  own  worthiness,  approached  him  with  confi- 
dence and  pride.     *     *     * 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  417 


There  is  nothing  so  indispensably  necessary  towards 
the  establishment  of  future  earthly,  as  well  as  heavenly 
happiness,  as  early  impressions  of  piety.  For,  as  re- 
ligion is  the  sole  source  of  all  human  welfare  and  peace, 
so  habits  of  religious  reflection,  in  the  spring  of  life,  are 
the  only  means  of  arriving  at  a  due  sense  of  the  impor- 
tance of  divine  concerns  in  age,  except  by  the  bitter  and 
hazardous  roads  of  repentance  and  remorse.  There  is 
not  a  more  awful  spectacle  in  nature,  than  the  death-bed 
of  a  late  repentance.  The  groans  of  agony  which  attend 
the  separation  of  the  soul  from  the  body,  heightened  by 
the  heart-piercing  exclamation  of  mental  distress  ;  the 
dreadful  ebullitions  of  horror  and  remorse,  intermingled 
with  the  half-fearful,  but  fervent  deprecations  of  the 
divine  wrath,  and  prayers  for  the  divine  mercy,  joined 
to  the  pathetic  imploring  to  the  friends  who  stand  weep- 
ing around  the  bed  of  the  sinner  to  pray  for  him,  and  to 
take  warning  from  his  awful  end,  contribute  to  render 
this  scene  such  an  impressive  and  terrible  memento  of 
the  state  of  those  who  have  neglected  their  souls,  as 
must  bring  to  a  due  sense  of  his  duty  the  most  hardened 
of  infidels. 

It  is  to  ensure  you,  my  young  friends,  as  far  as  pre- 
cept can  ensure  you,  from  horrors  like  these  in  your 
last  moments,  that  I  write  this  little  book,  in  the  hopes 
that,  through  the  blessing  of  the  Divine  Being,  it  may 
be  useful  in  inducing  you  to  reflect  on  the  importance  of 
early  piety,  and  lead  you  into  the  cheerful  performance 
of  your  duties  to  God,  and  to  your  own  souls.  In  the 
pursuit  of  this  plan,  I  shall,  first,  consider  the  bliss 
which  results  from  a  pious  disposition,  and  the  horrors 
of  a  wicked  one.  Secondly,  the  necessity  of  an  early 
attention  to  the  concerns  of  the  soul  towards  the  estab- 
lishment of  permanent  religion,  and  its  consequent  happi- 
ness ;  and,  thirdly,  I  shall  point  out  and  contrast  the  last 
moments  of  those  who  have  acted  in  conformity,  or  in 
contradiction  to  the  rules  here  laid  down. 

The  contrast  between  the  lives  of  the  good  and  the 
wicked  man  affords  such  convincing  arguments  in  sup- 
port of  the  excellence  of  religion,  that,  even  those  infi- 
dels who  have  dared  to  assert  their  disbelief  of  the  doc- 


418  COMPLETE    WORKS 

trine  of  Revelation,  have  confessed  that  in  a  political 
point  of  view,  if  in  no  other,  it  ought  to  be  maintained. 
Compare  the  peaceful  and  collected  course  of  the  virtu- 
ous and  pious  man,  with  the  turbulent  irregularity  and 
violence  of  him  who  neglects  his  soul  for  the  allure- 
ments of  vice,  and  judge  for  yourselves  of  the  policy  of 
the  conduct  of  each,  even  in  this  Avorld.  Whose  pleas- 
ures are  the  most  exquisite  ?  Whose  delights  the  most 
lasting  ?  Whose  state  is  the  most  enviable  ?  His  who 
barters  his  hopes  of  eternal  welfare  for  a  few  fleeting 
moments  of  brutal  gratification,  or  his  who,  while  he 
keeps  a  future  state  alone  in  his  view,  finds  happiness 
in  the  conscientious  performance  of  his  duties,  and  the 
scrupulous  fulfilment  of  the  end  of  his  sojourn  here  ? 
Believe  me,  my  friends,  there  is  no  comparison  between 
them.  The  joys  of  the  infatuated  mortal  who  sacrifices 
his  soul  to  his  sensualities,  are  mixed  with  bitterness 
and  anguish.  The  voice  of  conscience  rises  distinctly 
to  his  ear,  amid  the  shouts  of  intemperance  and  the  sal- 
lies of  obstreperous  mirth.  In  the  hour  of  rejoicing,  she 
whispers  her  appalling  monitions  to  him,  and  his  heart 
sinks  within  him,  and  the  smile  of  triumphant  villany  is 
converted  into  the  ghastly  grin  of  horror  and  hopeless- 
ness. But,  oh  !  in  the  languid  intervals  of  dissipation  ; 
in  the  dead  hour  of  the  night,  when  all  is  solitude  and 
silence,  v/hen  the  soul  is  driven  to  commune  with  itself, 
and  the  voice  of  remxorse,  whose  whispers  were  before 
half  drowned  in  the  noise  of  riot,  rises  dreadfully  dis- 
tinct— What ! — what  are  his  emotions  ! — Who  can  paint 
his  agonies,  his  execrations,  his  despair  !  Let  that  man 
lose  again,  in  the  vortex  of  fashion,  and  folly,  and  vice, 
the  remembrance  of  his  horrors  :  let  him  smile,  let  him 
laugh  and  be  merry  ;  believe  me,  my  dear  readers,  he  is 
not  happy,  he  is  not  careless,  he  is  not  the  jovial  being  he 
appears  to  be.  His  heart  is  heavy  within  him  ;  he  can- 
not stifle  the  reflections  which  assail  him  in  the  very 
moment  of  enjoyment  ;  but  strip  the  painted  veil  from 
his  bosom,  lay  aside  the  trappings  of  folly,  and  that 
man  is  miserable^  and  not  only  so,  but  he  has  purchased 
that  misery  at  the  expense  of  eternal  torment. 

Let  us  oppose  to  this  awful  picture  the  life  of  the  good 
man  ;  of  him  who  rises  in  the  morning  with  cheerfulness, 


OF    H.    K.    WHITE.  419 

to  praise  his  Creator  for  all  the  good  he  hath  bestowed 
upon  him,  and  to  perform  with  studious  exactness  the 
duties  of  his  station  ;  and  lays  himself  down  on  his  pil- 
low in  the  evening  in  the  sweet  consciousness  of  the  ap- 
plause of  his  own  heart.  Place  this  man  on  the  stormy 
seas  of  misfortune  and  sorrow — press  him  with  afflictive 
dispensations  of  Providence — snatch  from  his  arms  the 
object  of  his  affections — separate  him  forever  from  all 
he  loved  and  held  dear  on  earth,  and  leave  him  isolated 
and  an  outcast  in  the  Avorld, — he  is  calm — he  is  compos- 
ed— he  is  grateful — he  weeps,  for  human  nature  is  weak, 
but  he  still  preserves  his  composure  and  resignation — 
he  still  looks  up  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  with  thankful- 
ness and  praise,  and  perseveres  with  calmness  and  forti- 
tude in  the  paths  of  righteousness.  His  disappointments 
cannot  overwhelm  him,  for  his  chief  hopes  are  placed 
far,  very  far,  beyond  the  reach  of  human  vicissitude. 
'  He  hath  chosen  that  good  part,  which  none  can  take 
away  from  him.' 

Here  then  lies  the  great  excellence  of  religion  and 
piety  ;  they  not  only  lead  to  eternal  happiness,  but  to  the 
happiness  of  this  world  ;  they  not  only  ensure  everlast- 
ing bliss,  but  they  are  the  sole  means  of  arriving  at  that 
degree  of  felicity  which  this  dark  and  stormy  being  is 
capable  of,  and  are  the  sole  supports  in  the  hour  ofad- 
versity  and  affliction.  How  infatuated  then  must  that 
man  be,  who  can  wilfully  shut  his  eyes  to  his  own  wel- 
fare, and  deviate  from  the  paths  of  righteousness  which 
lead  to  bliss.  Even  allowing  him  to  entertain  the  erro- 
neous notion  that  religion  does  not  lead  to  happiness  in 
this  life,  his  conduct  is  incompatible  with  every  idea  of 
a  reasonable  being.  In  the  Spectator  we  find  the  fol- 
lowing image  employed  to  induce  a  conviction  of  the 
magnitude  of  this  truth  :  supposing  the  whole  body  of 
the  earth  were  a  great  ball,  or  mass  of  the  finest  sand, 
and  that  a  single  grain,  or  particle  of  this  sand,  should 
be  annihilated  every  thousand  years  ;  supposing  then 
that  you  had  it  in  your  choice  to  be  happy  all  the  while 
this  prodigious  mass  was  consuming,  by  this  slow  meth- 
od, till  there  was  not  a  grain  of  it  left,  on  condition  that 
you  were  to  be  miserable  ever  after ;  or  supposing  that 
you  might  be  happy  forever  after,  on  condition  you  would 


420  COMPLETE  WORKS   OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

be  miserable  till  the  whole  mass  of  sand  were  thus  annihi- 
lated, at  the  rate  of  one  sand  a  thousand  years  ;  which 
of  these  two  cases  would  you  make  your  choice  ? 
It  must  be  confessed  that  in  this  case  so  many  *  * 


The  life  of  man  is  transient  and  unstable  ;  its  fairest 
passages  are  but  a  lighter  shade  of  evil,  and  yet  those 
passages  form  but  a  disproportionate  part  of  the  picture. 
We  all  seek  Happiness,  though  with  different  degrees 
of  avidity,  while  the  fickle  object  of  our  pursuits  continu- 
ally evades  the  grasp  of  those  who  are  the  most  eager  in 
the  chase  ;  and,  perhaps  at  last  throws  herself  into  the 
arms  of  those  who  had  entirely  lost  all  sight  of  her,  and 
who,  when  they  are  most  blessed  with  her  enjoyment, 
are  least  conscious  that  they  possess  her.  Were  the 
objects  in  which  we  placed  the  consummation  of  our 
wishes  always  virtuous,  and  the  means  employed  to 
arrive  at  the  bourn  of  our  desires  uniformly  good,  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  the  aggregate  of  mankind  would 
be  as  happy  as  is  consistent  with  the  state  in  which  they 
live  :  but,  unfortunately  vicious  men  pursue  vicious  ends 
by  vicious  means,  and,  by  so  doing,  not  only  ensure 
their  own  misery,  but  they  overturn  and  destroy  the  fair 
designs  of  the  wiser  and  the  better  of  their  kind.  Thus 
he  who  has  no  idea  of  a  bliss  beyond  the  gratification  of 
his  brutal  appetites,  involves  in  the  crime  of  seduction, 
the  peace  and  the  repose  of  a  good  and  happy  family, 
and  an  individual  act  of  evil  extends  itself  by  a  contin- 
ued impulse  over  a  large  portion  of  society.  It  is  thus 
that  men  of  bad  minds  become  the  pests  of  the  socie- 
ties of  which  they  happen  to  be  members.  It  is  thus 
that  the  virtuous  among  men  pay  the  bitter  penalty  of 
the  crimes  and  follies  of  their  unworthy  fellows. 

Men  who  have  passed  their  whole  lives  in  the  lap  of 
luxury  and  enjoyment,  have  no  idea  of  misery  beyond 
that  of  which  they  happen  to  be  the  individual  objects. 


Lyman  Thurston  ^  Co.  Stereotypers, 


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